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THE  LIST  MIO^ 
OFTHlSBeOKIft - 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


^^  i  I,  19  /i  , 


/5- 


SELECTIONS   FROM 

WILLIAM    HAZLITT 


EDITED 
WI'^  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 


PROFESSOR  OF'^^LISH    IN    INDIiTOA^lJNIVERSITY 


^'^Food,  warmth,  sleep,  and  a  hook:  these  are  all 
I  at  present  ask."  —  Hazlitt 


GINN  AND  COMPANY 

BOSTON  •  NEW  YORK  •  CHICAGO  •  LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY  WILL  DAVID  HOWE 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


913-9 


^\it  iatftenaum   jPrefK 

GINN  AND  COMPANY  •  I'RO- 
PRIETUKS  •  BOSTON  •  U.S.A. 


To 

R.  P.  H. 

Best  of  collaborators 


PREFACE 

This  volume  gives,  as  far  as  space  permits,  essays  of  Hazlitt 
which  distinguish  him  as  a  critic  of  painting,  of  the  drama,  of 
books,  and  of  life.  If  the  lover  of  Hazlitt  fails  to  find  here  some 
favorite  essay,  let  him  take  consolation  from  the  fact  that  the 
present  editor  has  again  and  again  been  compelled  to  omit  some 
essay  without  which  at  first  he  thought  the  volume  would  be  al- 
together incomplete.  Though  restricted,  the  selection  will,  it  is 
hoped,  introduce  the  new  reader  to  one  of  the  most  interesting 
men  and  one  of  the  most  stimulating  critics,  one  who  could  write 
truthfully,  "  I  have  endeavored  to  feel  what  is  good  and  to  give 
a  reason  for  the  faith  that  was  in  me,  when  necessary  and  when 
in  my  power." 

Each  of  the  essays,  complete  in  itself,  has  been  carefully 
printed  from  the  text  which  was  approved  by  Hazlitt  himself. 
Even  the  spelling  and  punctuation  of  the  original  have  been 
scrupulously  followed.  This  will  explain  certain  inconsistencies 
in  punctuation  and  in  the  spelling,  especially  of  proper  names. 

Doubtless  Hazlitt,  sentimentalist  as  he  was,  would  have 
smiled  at  any  editor  who  should  attempt  to  identify  his  quota- 
tions and  to  explain  his  references.  However,  in  the  study  of 
an  essayist  it  is  interesting  to  know  something  of  the  wealth 
of  his  reading,  and  it  is  necessary  to  explain  the  allusions  which, 
though  clear  to  the  reader  of  his  day,  are  obscure  to  us  of  another 
century. 

I  desire  to  express  my  indebtedness  to  Mr.  A.  R.  Waller,  of 
Cambridge,  England,  to  Mr.  J.  Rogers  Rees,  of  Salisbury,  Eng- 
land, to  Professor  G.  L.  Kittredge,  of  Harvard  University,  and 


vi  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

to  Professor  C.  T.  Winchester,  of  Wesleyan  University,  all  of 

whom  have  given  most  helpful  suggestions.  Professor  Winchester 

has  kindly  read  the  entire  proof.    For  their  courtesy  at  all  times 

I  thank  the  authorities  of  the  Boston  Public  Library,  the  Harvard  ' 

University  Library,  the  Bodleian,  the  British  Museum  and  the 

Williams  Library  in  London,  where  I  was  permitted  to  read  the 

Crabb  Robinson  manuscript. 

W.  D.  H. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION 

I.  Biographical  Sketch ix 

II.  As  Critic  of  the  Drama xli 

III.  As  Critic  of  Painting xlvii 

IV.  As  Critic  of  Books  and  Men xlix 

V.  As  Personal  Essayist liv 

VI.  Hazlitt's  Style Ivii 

VII.  The  Man  Hazlitt Ix 

VIII.  Selected  Bibliography Ixvi 

A.  Works Ixvi 

B.  Editions Ixvii 

C.  Biography Ixvii 

D.  Contemporary  Criticism  in  Magazines     .  Ixviii 

E.  Miscellaneous  Criticism Ixviii 

SELECTIONS 

Hamlet i 

On  the  Periodical  Essayists 9 

Character  of  Mr.  Burke 29 

On  Poetry  in  General 35 

On  Elizabethan  Literature 58 

On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting 82 

On  Reading  Old  Books 94 

On  a  Landscape  of  Nicolas  Poussin 107 

On  the  Fear  of  Death 115 

vii 


viii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

PAGE 

On  Living  to  One's-Self 127 

On  the  Past  and  Future 142 

On  Familiar  Style ^55  4^ 

On  Going  a  Journey 163 

My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets 175 

Merry  England 197 

Of  Persons  One  would  Wish  to  have  Seen  .     .  212 

On  the  Feeling  of  Immortality  in  Youth       .     .  228 

On  Reading  New  Books 242 

On  Disagreeable  People 259 

On  a  Sun-Dial 274 

On  Cant  and  Hypocrisy 285 

A  Farewell  to  Essay-Writing 298 

The  Sick  Chamber 308 

NOTES 317 

INDEX 393 


INTRODUCTION 

I.  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

It  is  difficult  to  think  of  any  ten  years  which  have  been  richer 
in  promise  for  English  literature  than  the  period  between  1770 
and  1780.  Within  that  decade  were  bom  Wordsworth  in  1770, 
Scott  in  I  77  I,  Coleridge  in  1772,  Jeffrey  in  1773,  Southey  in 
1774,  Lamb  in  1775,  and  Hazlitt  in  1778.  Of  this  group,  two 
were  to  be  poets  who  would  give  new  direction  to  literary  work ; 
one  was  to  be  the  great  prose  romance  writer  of  our  literature, 
if  not  of  the  world ;  one  was  to  be  critic  and  editor  of  a  great 
magazine ;  one  was  to  please  by  his  oriental  poetry ;  one  was 
to  be  the  most  beloved  of  men,  the  most  whimsical  of  essayists, 
the  best  letter-writer ;  the  last  was  to  be  one  of  the  most  pleas- 
ing and  stimulating  critics  of  the  theater,  of  painting,  of  books, 
and  of  men. 

William  Hazlitt  was  born  on  the  tenth  of  April,  1778,  at 
Maidstone  in  Kent.  His  ancestors  on  the  paternal  side  were 
of  sturdy  Dissenter  stock  who  had  probably  gone  over  to  Ire- 
land from  Holland  after  the  time  of  William  of  Orange. 

His  father,  William  Hazlitt,  was  a  man  of  strong  character, 
who  had  received  with  honor  the  degree  of  M.A.  from  Glasgow 
University.  At  the  University  he  had  allied  himself  with  a  group 
of  men  of  liberal  political  and  religious  views  and  had  subse- 
quently left  the  Presbyterian  Church  and  had  become  a  Uni- 
tarian minister.  During  his  first  charge  he  married  Grace  Loftus, 
the  daughter  of  a  nonconformist  ironmonger.  They  were  mar- 
ried at  Peterborough  in  1776  and  moved  to  Marshfield.  At 
Marshfield  John  was  born,  who  was  to  become  well  known  as 

i.x 


X  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

a  miniature  portrait  painter.  Then  a  "call "  came  from  Maidstone, 
Kent,  in  1770.  The  ten  years  at  Maidstone  were  cast  in  pleas- 
ant places,  for  here  the  family  found  a  little  group  of  free- 
thinkers, who  liked  them  and  whom  they  liked,  and  here  the 
elder  William  Hazlitt  could  display  his  splendid  ability  in  intel- 
lectual intercourse  with  the  other  ministers  of  the  town,  and 
occasionally  with  leaders  such  as  Dr.  Priestley  and  Benjamin 
Franklin.  Here,  too,  were  bom  Margaret  in  1771  and  William 
in  1778.    Of  seven  children  only  these  three  lived  to  maturity. 

The  members  of  this  sturdy  Dissenter  family  were  not  to 
spend  their  lives  in  the  quiet  of  a  Kentish  village.  The  year 
1780  took  them  to  Bandon,  County  Cork,  Ireland.  The  father 
interested  himself  in  the  cause  of  the  American  soldiers  at  Kin- 
sale  Prison,  who  were  reported  to  be  subjected  to  the  most  cruel 
abuses.  His  efforts  to  secure  relief  were  successful,  but  brought 
upon  him  the  suspicion  and  hatred  of  the  citizens.  He  saw  that 
his  opportunity  for  usefulness  in  that  community  was  at  an  end, 
and  he  began  to  consider  where  he  should  go.  His  devotion  to 
the  cause  of  liberty,  naturally  strong,  had  been  nourished  by 
what  he  had  heard  and  seen,  and  possibly  also  by  reports  from 
his  uncle,  who  was  a  colonel  in  the  American  Revolutionary 
Army.  We  are  not  surprised,  then,  that  the  next  move  for  the 
Hazlitts  should  be  to  America. 

Our  scene  shifts  to  the  New  World.  On  the  third  of  April, 
1783,  the  family  set  sail  for  New  York.  They  landed  on  the 
twelfth  of  May.  Fortunately,  the  story  of  these  years  is  recorded 
in  the  delightful  diary  of  Margaret,^  always  called  Peggy.  We 
have  not  a  more  pleasing  sketch  of  the  America  of  that  period. 
We  catch  glimpses  of  the  wanderings  of  the  family  first  in  New 
York  for  two  days,  then  to  Philadelphia,  where  the  elder  Hazlitt 
preached  for  the  churches  and  gave  many  lectures ;  then  to 
Weymouth   about   fifteen   miles   from    15oston ;    and   finally  to 

i  Selections  from  the  diary  were  printed  for  the  first  time  in  "  Four  Generations 
of  a  Literary  Family"  (1897). 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

Dorchester,  now  a  suburb  of  Boston.  Peggy  has  drawn  many  a 
picture  of  the  country,  has  told  us  about  the  conditions  of  travel, 
and  has  shown  us  a  very  affectionate  family  in  new  and  interest- 
ing surroundings.  The  country  about  Weymouth  especially 
pleased  her.  "  The  house  stood  in  a  most  romantic  spot,  sur- 
rounded on  three  sides  by  very  steep  hills  that  sloped  down  just 
in  sight  of  the  windows,  and  were  covered  with  locust  trees. 
These  trees  grow  to  a  great  height,  and  their  yellow  blossoms, 
somewhat  like  the  laburnum,  perfumed  the  air  in  spring.  On  the 
green  before  the  door  stood  a  solitary  pear-tree,  beyond  the 
shade  of  which  in  the  hot  days  William  was  not  allowed  to  go 
until  four  o'clock,  when  the  sun  was  in  some  sort  shaded  by 
the  neighbouring  hills.  .  .  .  How  often  have  we  stood  at  the 
window  looking  at  my  father  as  he  went  up  the  Hingham  Road 
with  William  in  his  nankeen  dress  marching  by  his  side  like  one 
that  could  never  be  tired."  ^ 

After  a  litde  more  than  a  year  and  a  half  at  Weymouth  the 
family  moved  to  Dorchester.  For  a  time  the  elder  Hazlitt  was 
content  to  preach  in  Boston  and  its  vicinity,  but  soon  despair- 
ing of  having  a  regular  charge,  decided  to  "^  return  to  England. 
He  sailed  from  Boston  in  October,  1786,  leaving  the  family  in 
America  for  the  winter.  During  the  season  John  worked  at  his 
painting,  doing  a  miniature  of  his  brother,  and  William  studied 
Latin.  The  first  bit  of  writing  which  we  have  from  the  pen  of 
the  future  essayist  was  composed  at  this  time. 

1 2th  of  Nov. 

My  dear  Papa,  —  I  shall  never  forget  that  wc  came  to  america.  If 
we  had  not  came  to  america,  we  should  not  have  been  away  from  one 
and  other,  though  now  it  can  not  be  helped.  I  think  for  my  part  that  it 
would  have  been  a  great  deal  better  if  the  white  people  had  not  found 
it  out.    Let  the  [others]  have  it  for  themselves,  for  it  was  made  for 

1  "  Four  Generations,"  etc.,  I,  37. 

2  "  Oh,  most  unfortunate  resolve  !  for  but  a  few  months  after  he  had  sailed 
old  Mr.  Gay  died,  and  Dr.  Gordon  came  over  to  London  to  publish  his  work, 
and  at  either  of  these  places  (Hingham  or  Salem)  my  father  would  have  been 
chosen  "  ("  Four  Generations,"  etc.,  I,  50). 


xii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

them.  I  have  got  a  little  of  my  grammar :  sometimes  I  get  three  pages 
and  sometimes  but  one.  I  do  not  sifer  any  at  all.  Mamma  Peggy  and 
Jacky  are  all  well,  and  I  am  to.  —  I  still  remain  your  most  Affectionate 
Son,  William  Hazlitt. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Hazlitt,  London. 
To  the  care  of  Mr.  David  Lewis. 

To  the  regret  of  Margaret  the  family  left  America.  They 
sailed  on  the  fourth  of  July,  1887,  reached  Portsmouth  on  the 
twelfth  of  August,  and  went  at  once  to  London. 

The  sojourn  in  America  seems  to  have  made  scant  impres- 
sion upon  the  memory  of  Hazlitt,  except  the  taste  of  barberries 
which  he  fondly  recalled  in  later  years.  "  I  have  it  in  my  mouth 
still  after  an  interval  of  more  than  thirty  years,  for  I  have  met 
no  other  taste  in  all  that  time  at  all  like  it." 

After  the  autumn  spent  at  Walworth,^  the  father  was  called 
to  the  little  church  at  VVem,  near  Shrewsbury.  For  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  century  the  family  lived  at  Wem,  and  the  younger 
William  spent  there  most  of  his  years  between  the  age  of  ten 
and  twenty-two.  It  would  be  strange  if  this  period  of  residence 
had  not  left  many  an  impression  upon  the  sensitive  tempera- 
ment of  William  Hazlitt,  or  had  not  often  called  forth  a  happy 
reminiscence  of  youthful  scenes  and  incidents.  His  essays  glow 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  youth  as  he  recalls  a  scene  in  the 
house  at  Wem,  the  colors  that  rested  on  the  Salopian  hills,  or 
some  book  or  picture  which  he  discovered  in  his  many  rambles 
about  the  country.  "  If  I  see  a  row  of  cabbage  plants,  or  of 
peas  or  beans  coming  up,  I  immediately  think  of  those  which 
I  used  so  carefully  to  water  of  an  evening  at  Wem  when  my 
day's  task  was  done,  and  of  the  pain  with  which  I  saw  them 
droop  and  hang  down  their  leaves  in  the  morning's  sun."  How 
he  looked  back  upon  the  experiences  of  those  years  was  well 

1  "  When  1  was  quite  a  boy  my  father  used  to  take  me  to  the  Montpelier  Tea- 
gardens  at  Walworth"  ("Why  Distant  Objects  Please,"  Works,  VI,  257).  See 
also  "  Four  Generations,"  etc.,  1,57. 


INTRODUCTION  xiil 

expressed  when  he  said  long  afterwards,  "  I  never  see  a  child's 
kite  but  it  seems  to  pull  at  my  heart." 

A  letter  from  William  at  the  age  of  eleven  to  his  brother 
John,  written  in  March  (1788)  after  the  family  had  moved  to 
Wem,  allows  us  to  see  some  of  the  life  of  the  boy.  "  You  want 
to  know  what  I  do.  I  am  a  busybody  and  do  many  silly  things. 
I  drew  eyes  and  noses  till  about  a  fortnight  ago.  I  have  drawn 
a  little  boy  since,  a  man's  face,  and  a  little  boy's  front  face  taken 
from  a  bust.  Next  Monday  I  shall  begin  to  read  Ovid's  ''  Meta- 
morphoses" and  "  Eutropius."  I  shall  like  to  know  all  the  Latin 
and  Greek  I  can.  I  want  to  learn  how  to  measure  the  stars.  I  shall 
not,  I  suppose,  paint  the  worse  for  knowing  everything  else." 

Besides  the  influence  of  the  country  and  of  books,  perhaps 
the  most  lasting  impression  came  from  Hazlitt's  father.  In 
politics  and  religion  the  elder  William  Hazlitt  had  decided  views. 
He  had  an  aptitude  for  metaphysics  and  an  abiding  faith  in 
God.  Between  the  father  and  son  was  formed  a  bond  of  affec- 
tion and  sympathy.  The  father  looked  with  joyful  pride  upon 
his  son's  youthful  prowess  and  liked  to  think  of  him  as  a  minis- 
ter expounding  the  principles  of  religion  and  the  rights  of  man. 
As  the  years  passed  this  filial  love  in  the  work  of  the  essayist 
blossomed  in  passages  of  fervent  eloquence.  "  But  we  have 
known  some  such  in  happier  days  who  had  been  brought  up 
and  lived  from  youth  to  age  in  the  one  constant  belief  of  God 
and  of  his  Christ,  and  who  thought  all  other  things  but  dross 
compared  with  the  glory  hereafter  to  be  revealed."  ^ 

An  occasional  letter  from  Margaret  or  from  William  himself, 
or  a  remark  in  his  essays,  gives  us  glimpses  of  these  quiet  years 
at  Wem.  In  1790  he  went  on  a  visit  to  the  Tracys,  a  Unitarian 
family  in  Liverpool.  Fortunately  we  have  letters  telling  of  this 
visit.-   A  few  sentences  from  these  letters  show  a  learned  young 

i"On  Court  Influence,"  written  in  January,  iSiS,  Works,  III,  254. 
2"  Four  Generations,"  etc.,  I,  6S  ff.   See  also  "  The  New  School  of  Reform," 
Works,  VII,  193. 


xiv  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

man  of  twelve.  "  I  spent  a  very  agreeable  day  yesterday,  as  I 
read  i6o  pages  of  Priestley  and  heard  two  good  sermons.  .  .  . 
I  do  not  converse  in  French,  but  I  and  Miss  Tracy  have  a  book, 
something  like  a  vocabulary,  where  we  get  the  meaning  of  words. 
Miss  Tracy  never  does  accompts  but  I  take  an  hour  or  two  every 
other  day."  At  Liverpool  he  saw  his  first  play,  and  went  for  his 
first  service  to  the  Established  Church,  which  he  did  not  like. 

The  scant  record  of  these  early  years  shows  a  boy  of  perfectly 
natural  tastes,  eager  and  enthusiastic,  especially  sensitive  to  line 
and  color,  and  attracted  by  everything  in  the  nature  of  meta- 
physical speculation.  What  is  right  ?  What  is  law  ?  What  is  the 
basis  of  government  ?  These  questions  kept  coming  back  to  him 
to  be  answered  and  led  him  to  this  conclusion  :  "  How  ineffectual 
are  all  pleasures  except  those  which  arise  from  a  knowledge  of  hav- 
ing done  as  far  as  one  knows  that  which  was  right  to  make  their 
possessors  happy."  ^  One  practical  outcome  of  his  early  think- 
ing was  his  letter  in  1791,  published  in  the  Shrewsbury  Chrotiide, 
a  learned  article  condemning  the  outrage  against  Dr.  Priestley, 
whose  house  had  been  burned  by  a  mob  in  Birmingham. 

So  Hazlitt  grew  to  be  fifteen.  The  desire  to  have  his  son 
a  nonconformist  minister  prompted  the  father  to  try  the  Hackney 
Theological  Seminary.  "  My  father,"  wrote  the  essayist,  "  would 
far  sooner  I  had  preached  a  good  sermon  than  painted  a  Rem- 
brandt." His  letters  of  that  year^  give  the  scope  of  his  lectures 
—  Sophocles,  Quintilian,  Greek  grammar,  mathematics,  logic,  a 
bit  of  Hebrew  divinity  and  philosophy.  Even  this  range  did 
not  quite  satisfy  him,  for  he  was  resolved  to  have  a  "  particular 
system  of  politics  "  so  that  he  would  "  be  able  to  judge  of  the 
truth  or  falsehood  of  any  principle  which  I  hear  or  read,  and  of 
the  justice  or  the  contrary  of  any  political  transaction."  ^  And 
as  an  experiment  he  tried  his  hand  at  an  essay  "On  the  Political 
State  of  Man.^  "  The  best  parts  of  the  year  were  the  fortnightly 

1  "  Memoirs,"  p.  20.  2  Published  in  "  Lamb  and  Hazlitt,"  pp.  33-47. 

8  Ibid.,  p.  39.  ■*  Ibid.,  p.  42. 


INTRODUCTION  XV 

visits  to  the  studio  of  his  brother  John,  who  was  working  with 
success  under  the  tuition  of  Joshua  Reynolds.  However,  not 
much  at  Hackney  was  to  Hazlitt's  liking,  and  1794  found  him 
again  at  home  with  nothing  to  do. 

The  next  eight  years  of  his  life  at  Wem,  though  meagerly 
recorded  in  an  occasional  remark  in  his  essays,  meant  much  for 
Hazlitt.  The  "  long  dejection  "  held  him  —  "  the  repeated  dis- 
appointments which  have  served  to  overcast  and  throw  into  deep 
obscurity  some  of  the  best  years  of  my  life."  ^  He  had  been 
the  companion  of  his  brother,  the  painter  ;  he  had  tried  to  draw, 
he  had  looked  at  everything  with  a  painter's  eye  and  had  dreamed 
of  himself  as  painter,  but  he  could  do  nothing.  "  I  could  not 
write  a  line.  I  could  not  draw  a  stroke.  I  was  brutish.  In 
words,  in  looks,  in  deeds  I  was  no  better  than  a  changeling. 
...  I  was  at  that  time  dumb,  inarticulate,  helpless  like  a  worm 
by  the  wayside,  crushed,  bleeding,  lifeless."  ^  So  wanderlust 
took  possession  of  him.  He  walked  over  the  country,  across 
the  hills  of  Shropshire  into  Llangollen,  saw  the  pictures  at 
the  Burleigh  Gallery,  visited  the  Cathedral  at  Peterborough, 
tramped  to  Wisbeach  "  to  see  the  town  where  my  mother  was 
bom,  the  farmhouse,  the  gate  where  she  used  to  stand  when  a 
girl  of  ten  and  look  at  the  setting  sun."  ^ 

However,  the  years  of  awakening  were  not  far  distant.  In 
1796  Hazlitt  found  a  copy  of  the  St.  James  Chronicle  which 
contained  a  part  of  Burke's  "  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord."  *  Then 
the  world  began  anew  for  him.  For  the  first  time  he  realized  the 
power  of  the  written  word  and  took  fresh  courage.  He  had 
vainly  tried  to  "  write  a  single  essay,  nay,  a  single  page,  a  sen- 
tence." "  To  be  able  to  convey  the  slightest  conception  of  my 
meaning  to  others  in  words  was  the  height  of  an  almost  hopeless 
ambition."    With  enthusiasm  he  began  again  his  reading,  and 

1  "  Lamb  and  Hazlitt,"  p.  45  (letter  from  Hackney,  October  23,  1793). 

a  "  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets,"  p.  176. 

3  "  Memoirs,"  pp.  36-37.  4  Notes,  p.  326, 


xvi  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

made  discoveries  which  gave  him  pleasure  for  a  lifetime  — 
Shakspere's  plays  ;  Milton's  "  Paradise  Lost "  ;  Boccaccio's 
"Decameron";  Rousseau's  "Confessions"  and  "New  Eloise"; 
Burke's  "  French  Revolution  "  ;  "  Letters  of  Junius  "  ;  the 
dramatists  of  the  Restoration,  especially  Congreve  and  Far- 
quhar ;  the  novels  of  Fielding,  Richardson,  Smollett,  and  Sterne  ; 
the  "Tatler";  "Arabian  Nights";  "  Don  Quixote";  the  philo- 
sophical writings  of  Hartley,  Berkeley,  Hume,  and  Rochefou- 
cauld. During  those  plastic  years  these  books  stand  first  in  the 
influences  upon  his  life.  As  long  as  he  lived  he  looked  back 
upon  them  only  with  joy  and  recalled  with  gusto  J:he  circum- 
stances under  which  he  had  first  read  them.  Books  and  usually 
the  books  of  these  proud  days  were  to  Hazlitt  ever  one  of  his 
"  pure  joys,"  for  he  boasted  in  later  years  that  he  had  not  read 
a  book  through  since  he  became  thirty. 

Though  he  loved  books  and  though  he  got  on  so  ill  with  his 
friends,  he  always  gave  books  a  place  below  real  men  and 
women.  First  of  all  was  the  influence  of  his  father;  next,  per- 
haps, the  lifelong  friendship  of  his  brother  John.  Early  in  these 
years  he  met  Godwin,  Holcroft,  Rickman,  the  Burneys,  and 
Crabb  Robinson.  Then  a  great  light  flashed  across  his  pathway. 
As  if  from  a  dream  the  young  man  of  twenty  arose  with  a  new 
strength.  He  met  Coleridge,^  heard  him  preach,  walked  and 
talked  with  him,  and  was  invited  by  him  to  visit  him  at  Nether 
Stowey  and  meet  Wordsworth. 

For  Hazlitt  there  were  probably  no  two  men  in  all  the  world 
more  worth  knowing.  What  this  meant  to  Hazlitt  he  has 
described  with  the  charm  of  a  poet  in  one  of  the  finest  essays 
in  the  language.  By  leaps  and  bounds  his  enthusiasm  rose  after 
Coleridge  left  Wem.  After  three  weeks  at  Shrewsbury  and  at 
Wem,  Hazlitt  started  for  a  walking  tour  in  Wales,  celebrated  ^ 
his  "  birthday  over  a  fowl,  a  bottle  of  sherry,  and  Rousseau's 
'New  Eloise'";   then  set  out  for  Nether  Stowev "  to  visit  the 

1 "  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets/'  pp.  1 76  ff.    2  Notes,  p.  366.    3  Ibid.,  p.  367, 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

Coleridges.  On  the  way  he  spent  two  days  at  Bridgwater, 
where  he  discovered  "  Paul  and  Virginia."  Arriving  at  Nether 
Stowey,  he  walked  over  with  Coleridge  to  Alfoxden.  Words- 
worth had  gone  to  Bristol  to  see  a  play,  but  Dorothy  Wordsworth 
received  them,  and  after  lunch  brought  out  the  manuscript  of 
Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge  read  aloud  the  poems  which  in 
a  few  months  were  to  appear  as  "  The  Lyrical  Ballads."  That 
evening  they  returned  to  Nether  Stowey.  Next  morning  \^'ords- 
worth  came  over  for  a  day,  and  so  back  and  forth  for  three 
weeks  this  remarkable  intercourse  continued.  Hazlitt  went  back 
to  think  it  all  over.  Those  days  of  talk  with  Coleridge  and 
Wordsworth  had  set  the  young  man  of  twenty  on  a  new  path. 

By  1 799  he  met  Crabb  Robinson,  who  has  left  in  his  autobiog- 
raphy a  most  interesting  record  of  many  men  and  women  of 
that  time  in  England  and  Europe.^  A  passage  from  his  Remi- 
niscences of  1799  deserves  our  immediate  attention.  "  Another 
interesting  acquaintance  which  commenced  at  this  period  was 
Will.  Hazlitt,  a  man  who  has  left  a  deservedly  high  reputation 
as  a  critic,  but  who,  at  the  time  I  first  knew  him,  was  struggling 
against  a  great  difficulty  of  expression,  which  rendered  him  by 
no  means  a  general  favourite  in  company.  His  bashfulness, 
want  of  words,  slovenliness  in  dress  &:c.  made  him  the  object  of 
ridicule.  .  .  .  The  moment  I  saw  him  I  concluded  he  was  an 
extraordinary  man.  He  had  few  friends  and  was  flattered  by 
my  attentions.  He  was  about  my  age.  He  used  frequently  to 
breakfast  with  me,  and  I  rendered  him  a  great  service,  intro- 
ducing him  to  Anthony  Robinson,  who  procured  him  his  first  job 
by  inducing  Johnson  to  publish  his  first  work.  ...  I  was  under 
great  obligations  to  Hazlitt  as  the  director  of  my  taste.  It  was 
he  who  first  made  me  acquainted  with  "  The  Lyrical  Ballads 


)'2 


1  It  is  certainly  to  be  regretted  that  this  autobiography  in  MS.  in  the  WiUiams 
Library,  London,  is  accessible  to  the  large  majority  of  readers  only  in  a  ver)^  un- 
satisfactory and  incomplete  edition  of  Thomas  Sadler  (editions  of  iS69and  1S72). 
Our  extracts  are  taken  from  the  manuscript  itself. 

2  Published  in  the  autumn  of  1798.   See  Notes,  p.  367. 


xviii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

and  the  poems  generally  of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Lamb,  and 
Southey,  with  whom  he  was  through  life  afterwards  so  closely 
connected,  whom  he  so  ill-treated,  and  who  became  so  important 
to  me.  Hazlitt  was  also,  like  myself,  a  great  admirer  of  Godwin 
and  Holcroft,  and  also  about  this  time  became  acquainted 
with  them."  ^ 

What  was  Hazlitt  to  do  ?  He  had  been  spending  much  of  his 
time  with  his  brother  John  in  London,  trying  to  learn  to  paint. 
The  year  at  Hackney  had  shown  the  folly  of  his  attempting  to 
preach ;  the  years  at  Wem  had  nourished  his  love  for  meta- 
physics, but  metaphysics  offered  no  prospect  of  a  livelihood. 
The  meeting  with  the  poets,  and  his  study  of  their  work,  had 
stirred  in  him  a  love  of  writing,  but  the  words  failed  to  come. 
There  was  still  one  thing  left.  He  had  always  looked  upon 
faces  and  upon  nature  with  the  eyes  of  the  painter,  he  had 
always  liked  to  draw,  and  he  had  passed  countless  hours  in  his 
brother's  studio.  He  loved  pictures  with  an  enthusiasm  born  of 
a  real  love  of  the  art.    Here,  certainly,  was  your  real  painter  I 

The  next  move  was  to  Paris  and  the  Louvre,  with  all  its 
treasures,  the  Mecca,  then  as  now,  of  the  aspiring  painter.  In 
October,  1802,  he  wrote  six  ^  letters  to  his  family  which  described 
his  plans  of  copying  the  masterpieces  for  friends  in  England, 
and  which  abounded  with  enthusiastic  admiration  of  certain 
masters.  Of  the  pictures  of  Rubens  he  wrote :  "  I  intend  to 
copy  two  out  of  the  five  I  am  to  do  for  Rail  ton.  ...  I  prom- 
ised Northcote  to  copy  Titian's  portrait  of  Hippolito  de  Medici. 
...  I  shall  have  gone  on  at  the  rate  of  a  portrait  in  a  fort- 
night. ...  I  generally  go  to  the  Museum  about  half  past  nine 

1  Another  passage  from  the  diary  of  the  same  date  tells  of  the  Hazlitt  family. 
"  In  passing  through  Wem  in  Shropshire  I  saw  a  very  worthy  old  Presbyterian 
Minister  —  no  worse  than  an  Arian,  I  presume,  the  father  of  the  Hazlitts.  William, 
who  had  become  my  friend,  was  not  tlicrc,  but  John,  the  miniature  painter,  was. 
I  liked  the  good  old  man  and  his  wife,  who  had  all  the  solidity  (I  do  not  mean 
stolidity)  and  sober  earnestness  of  the  more  respectable  noncons.  There  was  also 
a  maiden  sister  (Peggy).  Altogether  an  amusing  and  agreeable  group  in  my 
memory."  2  Published  in  "  Memoirs,"  etc.,  I,  85-102. 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

or  ten  o'clock,  and  continue  there  till  three  or  four."  He  worked 
in  Paris  for  four  months  and  returned  in  January  with  at  least 
eleven  copies  made  for  the  people  who  had  ordered  them. 

Though  now  and  then  a  fear  escaped  him  that  he  could  not 
be  a  Rembrandt  or  a  Titian,  both  of  whom  he  idolized,  yet  he 
persevered  and  set  about  diligently  to  turn  his  work  to  some 
practical  account.  For  almost  three  years  he  wandered  in  the 
north  of  England  as  an  itinerant  painter,  doing  portraits  of 
Wordsworth,^  Coleridge,^  Hartley  Coleridge,  and  an  old  woman^ 
near  Manchester  in  1802  or  1803.  At  Gateacre,  near  Liver- 
pool, he  painted  the  head  of  Dr.  Shepherd,*  friend  of  his  father 
and  father  of  Sally  Shepherd,  for  whom  he  seemed  to  have  had 
a  passing  affection ;  next  the  portrait  of  his  father,^  the  doing  of 
which  gave  to  both  father  and  son  much  pleasure  ;  finally  a  por- 
trait of  Charles  Lamb  in  "  the  costume  of  a  Venetian  senator."  ** 
This  last  is  the  only  specimen  of  Hazlitt's  painting  which  is  still 
preserved. 

Here  the  career  of  the  painter  came  abruptly  to  a  close. 
Afterwards  he  worked  occasionally  on  a  portrait  or  upon  his 
favorite  subject,  Jacob's  Ladder,  but  he  no  longer  relied  upon 
painting  as  a  profession.  Doubtless  the  consciousness  of  in- 
feriority to  his  favorite  painters,  combined  with  a  lack  of  patience 
necessary  to  acquire  the  technique  of  the  art,  convinced  him  that 
success  did  not  lie  that  way. 

The  portrait  of  Lamb  in  1804  probably  introduced  Hazlitt  to 
this  delightful  man.    They  met,  perhaps,  in  the  early  months  of 

1  See  Southey's  letter  to  Rickman,  December  14,  1S03. 

2  See  Coleridge's  letter  to  Sir  George  Beaumont,  October  i,  1S03  ;  also  Words- 
worth's letter  to  Sir  George  Beaumont,  June  3,  1805,  thanking  him  for  the  pres- 
ent of  Coleridge's  picture.  "  We  think,  as  far  as  mere  likeness  goes,  Hazlitt's  is 
the  better,  but  the  expression  in  Hazlitt's  is  quite  dolorous  and  funereal ;  that  in 
this  is  much  more  pleasing,  though  actually  falling  far  below  what  one  would  wish 
to  see  infused  into  a  picture  of  Coleridge."     3  "  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting,"  p.  86. 

4  Douady,  "  Vie  de  William  Hazlitt,"  p.  356. 
o  "  Four  Generations,"  etc.,  I,  83. 

6  Mary  Lamb's  letter  to  Mrs.  Coleridge,  October  13,  1804.  This  painting  is 
at  present  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery,  London. 


XX  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

that  year.^  In  her  letter  -  to  Mrs.  Coleridge  Mary  Lamb  wrote : 
"  I  have  lately  been  talking  of  you  with  Mrs.  Hazlitt  [wife  of 
John  Hazlitt].  William  Hazlitt  is  painting  my  brother's  picture, 
which  has  brought  us  acquainted  with  the  whole  family.  I  like 
William  Hazlitt  and  his  sister  [Peggy]  very  much  indeed,  and  I 
think  Mrs.  Hazlitt  a  pretty  good-humoured  woman."  The 
meeting  at  Godwin's  has  been  made  memorable  by  Hazlitt's 
description.^  They  were  talking,  so  Hazlitt  tells  us,  of  man, 
man  as  he  is  and  as  he  is  to  be.  One  thing  was  said  by  Cole- 
ridge, another  by  Godwin,  something  by  Holcroft,  then  Lamb 
stammered  out  slowly,  "  Give  me  man  as  he  is  not  to  be."  From 
that  moment  Hazlitt  became  his  friend.  The  friendship  lasted, 
with  one  or  two  interruptions,  to  the  end  of  Hazlitt's  life.*  The 
spirit  of  the  Wednesday  evenings  at  Lamb's  apartments  in  Mitre 
Court  has  been  expressed  by  no  one  so  well  as  by  Hazlitt.^  In 
that  period  of  more  than  twenty-five  years  there  were  many 
harsh  words  and  bitter  feelings,  but  the  one  who  remained  true 
to  Hazlitt  was  the  man  most  worth  knowing  in  London. 

Of  these  years  of  Hazlitt's  life  only  an  incident  or  two  may 
be  gleaned  from  the  letters  of  his  friends.  Hazlitt  accompanied 
Lamb  to  Drury  Lane  on  the  memorable  tenth  of  December, 
1806,  when  Lamb's  farce,  "  Mr.  H.,"  was  produced  with  pathetic 
results.  Charles  and  Mary,  Hazlitt,  and  Crabb  Robinson  were 
in  the  pit.^  The  year  1807  is  significant  for  an  incident  which 
brought  the  two  friends  together  in  a  practical  joke,'^  conceived 

1  Lucas,  "  Life  of  Charles  Lamb,"  p.  24S  (edition  of  1910). 

2  Mary  Lamb's  letter  to  Mrs.  Coleridge,  October  13,  1804.  This  painting  is  at 
present  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery,  London.  3  p.  1^5. 

■i  Lucas,  "  Life  of  Charles  Lamb,"  pp.  24S-252  ;  \V.  C.  Hazlitt,  "  Lamb  and 
Hazlitt,"  passim. 

5  Crabb  Robinson  affords  us  many  a  glimpse.  "  In  that  humble  apartment 
1  spent  many  happy  hours  and  saw  a  greater  number  of  excellent  persons  than  I 
had  ever  seen  collected  together  in  one  room." 

0  "On  Persons  One  would  Wish  to  have  Seen,"  p.  2 12;  "On  the  Conversation  of 
Authors,"  Works,  VII,  24.  See  also  Lucas,  "Life  of  Charles  Lamb," /a55/;«  ; 
Hazlitt's  account  in  his  essay  on  "Great  and  Little  Things,"  Works,  VI,  232. 

'  The  joke  is  described  in  W.  C.  Hazlitt,  "Lamb  and  Hazlitt,"  p.  61. 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

probably  by  Lamb  and  Joseph  Hume  of  the  Victualing  Office, 
Somerset  House,  after  the  manner  of  the  hoax  practiced  by 
Dean  Swift  on  the  almanac  maimer.  Partridge.  The  report  was 
circulated  that  "  W.  H.,  a  portrait  painter,  in  Southampton 
Buildings,  Holborn,  put  an  end  to  his  existence  by  cutting  his 
throat  in  a  shocking  manner."  All  the  details  were  vividly  pre- 
sented. To  this  report  Hazlitt  offered  a  Petition  and  Remon- 
strance, protesting  and  setting  forth  proofs  that  he  was  still 
alive.  In  a  wonderful  letter  of  four  pages  folio  to  Hume,  Lamb 
accepted  this  statement  as  either  a  forgery  or  a  communication 
from  the  dead.  The  incident  closed  with  a  short  note  from 
Hume  to  Hazlitt,  warning  him  against  Lamb. 

It  would  be  strange,  indeed,  if  the  names  of  women  did  not 
slip  into  the  pages  of  Hazlitt's  biography.  As  a  young  man  he 
was  very  shy,  especially  in  the  presence  of  young  women,  who 
always  made  game  of  his  awkward  manner.  However,  while 
he  was  a  traveling  painter  in  the  north  he  had  a  passing  affection 
for  a  Miss  Railton  of  Liverpool,  for  a  Miss  Walton,  and  for  a 
certain  Sally  Shepherd,  daughter  of  Dr.  Shepherd,  who  was  an 
intimate  friend  of  the  elder  Hazlitt.  Apparently  without  much 
reason  De  Quincey  has  insisted  that  Dorothy  Wordsworth  had 
repelled  his  attentions.  Fate  had  something  else  in  store  for 
Hazlitt  in  the  person  of  Sarah  Stoddart,  daughter  of  Lieutenant 
John  Stoddart,  a  retired  and  disappointed  naval  officer.  As  early 
as  1799  Hazlitt  and  John  Stoddart,  the  brother,  had  become 
acquainted,  but  there  was  never  any  affection  between  them. 
Mary  Lamb  and  Sarah  Stoddart  had  been  friends  for  reasons 
which  we  can  scarcely  understand.^  Fortunately  the  letters  of 
Mary  have  been  kept,  but  no  one  of  Sarah's  is  forthcoming.  It 
is  difficult  for  us  to  conceive  what  attraction  Hazlitt  found  in 
Sarah.  She  was  not  romantic  or  imaginative.  She  had  litde 
physical  charm,  and  was  selfish  and  determined.  She  had  been 
pursued  by  various  suitors,  who  are  now  mere  names  to  us  — 

1  Mrs.  Gilchrist,  "  Mary  Lamb,"  chaps,  vi-ix. 


xxii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

Mr.  Turner,  Mr.  White,  Mr.  Bowling,  and  "  William  of  partridge 
memory."  Her  turning  down  of  each  seemed  to  cause  her  little 
concern.  However,  the  fateful, affair  between  Hazlitt  and  Sarah 
began  to  be  serious,  and,  after  considerable  uneasiness  on  her 
part  regarding  the  marriage  settlement,  culminated  in  a  deci- 
sion to  marry.  Just  when  Hazlitt  and  Sarah  first  came  together 
is  still  a  matter  for  conjecture,^  but  no  evidence  brought  forward 
thus  far  convinces  us  that  they  knew  each  other  before  1806. 
There  was  considerable  fear  on  the  part  of  friends  that  the  new 
marriage  would  not  be  an  unqualified  success.  We  have  no  let- 
ters from  Sarah  Stoddart,  but  nothing  in  her  life  shows  that  she 
was  much  concerned  with  anything  but  the  marriage  settlement. 
Of  Hazlitt  there  remains  one  letter,  written  soon  after  the  hoax 
mentioned  above.  "  What  has  become  of  you  ? "  he  writes. 
"  Are  you  married,  hearing  that  I  was  dead  (for  so  it  has  been 
reported)  ?  .  .  .  For,  indeed,  I  never  love  you  as  well  as  when 
I  think  of  sitting  down  with  you  to  dinner  on  a  boiled  scrag  end 
of  mutton  and  hot  potatoes."  The  letter  ends  with  suggestions 
about  the  marriage  settlement.  In  February,  1808,  he  went  to 
Salisbury  to  see  her  and  to  make  plans  for  the  approaching 
nuptials.  Mary  Lamb  was  to  be  bridesmaid,  and  wrote  letters 
which  are  full  of  interest,  chatting  about  wedding  presents  and 
wedding  gowns.  For  some  reason  Charles  Lamb  was  not  at 
first  included  in  the  wedding  party,  but  when  on  the  first  of 
May,  1808,  the  marriage  took  place  at  St.  Andrew's  Church, 
Holborn,  John  Stoddart  and  wife,  and  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb 
were  the  only  guests.  The  account  of  the  wedding  is  recorded 
in  a  letter  by  Charles  Lamb  to  Southey :  "  I  was  at  Hazlitt's 

1  Mr.  W.  C.  Hazlitt  ("  Memoirs,"  I,  117)  thinks  that  the  William  Hazlitt  men- 
tioned by  Mary  Lamb  in  her  letter  of  September,  1803,  was  our  William  Hazlitt, 
and  that  she  was  writing  to  him  at  the  time.  Mr.  J.  Rogers  Rees  {Notes  and 
Queries,  April  11,  190S)  holds  a  similar  opinion.  Professor  Douady  ("Vie  de 
William  Hazlitt,"  p.  360)  thinks  it  was  not  William  Hazlitt  but  some  earlier  Wil- 
liam. The  reading  of  all  the  evidence  to  be  had  leads  me  to  agree  with  Professor 
Douady.  How  any  one  can  read  all  the  letters  of  Mary  Lamb  and  think  otherwise 
I  cannot  conceive  I 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

marriage  and  had  like  to  liave  been  turned  out  several  times 
during  the  ceremony.  Anything  awful  makes  me  laugh."  ^  Im- 
mediately after  the  marriage  Hazlitt  and  his  wife  withdrew  to 
Sarah's  cottage  '^  at  Winterslow,  a  little  village  about  six  miles 
from  Salisbury. 

Life  began  in  earnest  for  the  new  family  at  Winterslow.    By 
a  process  of  elimination  Hazlitt  had  decided  upon  writing  as 
his  profession.    Already  he  had  published,  but  nothing  with 
profit.   He  had  long  been  occupied  with  "  The  Essay  on  Human 
Action  "  (1805),  a  metaphysical  essay,  the  object  of  which,  as  he 
afterwards  said,^  was  "  to  remove  a  stumbling-block  in  the  meta- 
physical doctrine  of  the  innate  and  necessary  selfishness  of  the 
human  mind."  "  The  Free  Thoughts  on  Public  Affairs  "  he  had 
published  at  his  own  expense  in  1806.  In  "  A  Reply  to  Malthus  " 
(1807)  he  had  set  forth  his  views,  denying  the  proposition  of 
Malthus  regarding  population.    Then  he  turned  to  that  worthy 
and    popular   book   by   Abraham   Tucker,    "  Light   of    Nature 
Pursued"*  and  condensed  its  seven  volumes  into  one  (1807). 
Finally,  in  the  same  year  he  prepared  "  The  Eloquence  of  the 
British  Senate  "  '^  in  which  he  incorporated  selections  from'  the 
best  Parliament  speeches  with  explanatory  comment.     It  will 
be  readily  seen  that  little  financial  reward  could  be  expected 
from  such  a  list,  and  yet  from  Hazlitt's  point  of  view  the  work 
was  well  worth  the  doing.   He  had  the  opportunity  to  set  down 
more  clearly  his  philosophical  speculations;  he  had  studied  with 
special  profit  the  work  by  Tucker,  and  had  read  with  interest 
and  enthusiasm  the  best  English  orations.     By  the  publication 
of  the  selections  he  received  favorable  notices  from  the  press, 
which  he  could  turn  to  his  account  when  occasion  served. 

1  Written  August  9,  1815. 

2  Mr.  J.  Rogers  Rees  {Notes  and  Queries,  July  25,  1908)  has  cleared  up  the 
question  of  Sarah  Hazlitt's  property  at  Winterslow,  and  has  shown  that  there  is 
no  basis  for  the  statement  of  Mr.  W.  C.  Hazlitt  that  her  annual  income  from  "  her 
cottage  "  was  ^120.  a  "  Letter  to  William  Gifford,"   Works,  I,  403. 

■*  "Four  Generations,"  etc.,  1,  96.  5  Ibid.,  I,  97. 


xxiv  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

Next  he  occupied  himself  with  an  English  grammar,  which  he 
published  in  1810,  and  then  proceeded  with  the  "Memoirs  of 
Holcroft,"  which,  however,  did  not  appear  till  18 16.  His  exten- 
sive reading  in  English  and  French  philosophy  led  him  to  con- 
sider writing  a  history  of  philosophy.  With  his  reading  and 
writing  Hazlitt  had  not  entirely  given  up  painting.  At  times  he 
worked  industriously,  especially  on  his  favorite  subject,  Jacob's 
Ladder,^  by  which  he  wished  to  symbolize  the  ascent  of  the 
human  spirit  toward  light,  "  toward  the  spiritual  heaven  of 
grand  ideas."    So  the  months  passed  at  Winterslow. 

The  absence  of  the  Hazlitts  from  London  was  felt  by  the 
Lambs.  Mary  Lamb  wrote  to  Sarah  Hazlitt,  December  10,  1808  : 
"  You  cannot  think  how  very  much  we  miss  you  and  H.  [azlitt] 
of  a  Wednesday  evening.  All  the  glory  of  the  night,  I  may  say, 
is  at  an  end.  .  .  .  Hazlitt  was  most  brilliant,  most  ornamental 
as  a  Wednesday  man,  but  he  was  a  more  useful  one  on  com- 
mon days  when  he  dropped  in  after  a  quarrel  or  a  fit  of  the 
glooms."  After  repeated  urging  the  Lambs  consented  to  go 
down  to  Winterslow.  The  trip  was  planned,  then  postponed  on 
account  of  Mary's  illness.  The  letters  describing  the  details  are 
full  of  humorous  expectancy.  The  party  was  to  consist  of  four, 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  Martin  Burney,  and  Edward  Phillips. 
Mary  was  to  take  bed  coverings,  Burney  was  to  sleep  in  the 
kitchen,  and  all  were  to  help  pay  the  expenses  of  entertainment. 
The  visit  was  finally  accomplished  in  the  fall  of  1809.  We  have 
glimpses  of  it  from  one  of  Lamb's  letters."  "  I  have  but  this 
moment  received  your  letter  dated  the  9th  instant,  having  just 
come  off  a  journey  from  Wiltshire  where  I  have  been  with  Mary 
on  a  visit  to  Hazlitt.  The  journey  has  been  of  infinite  service  to 
her.  We  have  had  nothing  but  sunshiny  days  and  daily  walks 
from  eight  to  twenty  miles  a  day :  have  seen  Wilton,  Salisbury, 

1  See  "  Lamb  and  Hazlitt,"  pp.  99-102,  for  Ilazlitt's  letter  to  his  wife  (who  had 
gone  to  London  for  a  short  visit  with  the  Lambs),  written  about  April,  1809. 
■-  Charles  Lamb's  letter  to  Coleridge,  October  30,  1S09. 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

Stonehenge,  etc."^  A  second  visit  in  the  following  July  (iSio) 
was  equally  happy,  but  did  not  end  so  fortunately  for  the  health 
of  Mary  Lamb.  On  their  return  to  London  they  went  by  the 
way  of  Oxford  and  Blenheim,  accompanied  by  Hazlitt.  There 
are  more  delightful  references  to  these  visits  in  the  letters  of  the 
Lambs  and  in  Hazlitt's  essays." 

We  read  of  visits  of  the  Hazlitts  to  London^  early  in  1811. 
In  his  diary  of  February  18,  181 1,  Crabb  Robinson  called  at 
"W.  Hazlitt's"  on  the  4th  of  March;  he  "took  tea  with  W. 
Hazlitt  and  had  two  hours  pleasant  chat  with  him."  On  the  6th 
he  found  Hazlitt  at  the  Lambs  ;  on  the  9th  "called  on  W.  Haz- 
litt"  ;  on  the  loth  Hazlitt  called  on  Robinson;  on  the  29th 
"  spent  the  evening  with  W.  Hazlitt.  Smith,  Hume,  Coleridge, 
Lamb  there  .  .  .  Coleridge  and  Hazlitt  discussed  about  abstract 
ideas";  on  the  30th  he  "found  Coleridge  and  W.  Hazlitt  at 
Lamb's."  So  it  appears  that  at  least  William  Hazlitt  spent  much 
of  March  in  London,  though  they  did  not  move  to  London  till 
late  that  year  or  early  in  1 8 1 2 . 

On  the  twenty-sixth  of  September,  1 8 1 1 ,  their  son  William  was 
born.  By  way  of  congratulation  Mary  Lamb  wrote,  "I  never  knew 
an  event  of  the  kind  that  gave  me  so  much  pleasure  as  the  little 
long-looked-for,  come-at-last's  arrival "  ;  and  Charles  could  not 
help  showing  his  good  heart  even  in  a  short  note,  "  Well,  my 
blessing  and  Heaven's  be  upon  him,  and  make  him  like  his 
father,  with  something  of  a  better  temper  and  a  smoother  head 
of  hair :  and  then  all  the  men  and  women  must  love  him."  * 

Since  his  days  at  Hackney  (1794)  Hazlitt  had  kept  in  close 
touch  with  London.  His  brother  John,  who  was  gaining  a 
respectable  patronage  as  a  miniature  painter,  always  welcomed 

1  Hazlitt,  '■  Farewell  to  Essay  Writing,"  p.  ooo.  See  also  Mary  Lamb's  letter 
to  Sarah,  November  7,  1S09.    Mrs.  Gilchrist,  "  Mary  Lamb,"  p.  174. 

2  Hazlitt,  "On  the  Conversation  of  Authors,"  Works,  VII,  42;  also  "The 
Character  of  Country  People,"  Works,  XI,  309. 

3  Mary  Lamb  writes  on  the  thirtieth  of  November,  1810.  to  Sarah,  urging  her 
and  Hazlitt  to  make  them  a  visit.      ■*  Letters  bearing  the  date,  2d  October,  iSii. 


xxvi  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

him.  His  circle  of  acquaintances  and  friends  was  gradually 
widening,  and  he  saw  more  and  more  that  to  London  he  must 
come  if  he  wished  to  profit  by  his  writing.  Though  he  had 
published  nothing  which  earned  for  him  a  popular  reputation, 
his  power  of  expression  was  developing  and  his  original  talk 
and  independent  thinking  were  bringing  to  him  a  group  of  the 
best  literary  folk.  As  Charles  Lamb  intimated  in  his  letter  on  the 
occasion  of  the  birth  of  the  new  William,  Hazlitt's  temper  was 
not  of  the  best.  He  was  naturally  much  depressed  and  soured 
by  the  events  of  the  political  world.  Life  had  begun  for  him, 
he  tells  us,  with  the  French  Revolution,  and  Napoleon  was  his 
idol,  "  the  champion  in  the  flesh  of  the  rights  of  the  oppressed." 
To  see  his  romantic  hero  enmeshed  in  the  net  by  a  group  of 
unthinking,  hypocritical  aristocrats  galled  him  unspeakably.  To 
see  some  of  the  best  men  in  England,  —  Coleridge,  Wordsworth, 
Southey,  and  Landor, — men  who  had  boasted  of  their  revolu- 
tionary allegiance,  on  their  knees,  as  he  thought,  with  feeble 
recantations,  tried  his  patience  to  the  uttermost  and  made  him 
exclaim  in  despair,  "  By  Heaven,  I  think  I  '11  endure  it  no  more." 
.Moreover,  his  years  of  married  life  had  not  been  happy. 
Hazlitt  was  certainly  not  an  ideal  husband.  He  was  irregular 
in  his  habits,  slovenly  in  dress,  irritable  and  buoyant  by  turns, 
angry  that  the  world  did  not  seem  to  serve  him  well.  That  his 
marriage  had  not  turned  out  happily  was  not  all  his  fault.  Sarah 
Hazlitt  was  utterly  incompetent  in  all  matters  requiring  domestic 
economy.  She  was  untidy,  selfish,  and  eager  for  a  kind  of  taw- 
dry show.-^  She  had  a  fair  amount  of  understanding,  but  pos- 
sessed little  sentiment,  and  surely  no  sympathy  with  Hazlitt 
and  his  work.    Just  why  they  ever  got  so  far  as  marriage  is  as 

1  One  bit  of  description  of  Sarah  Hazlitt's  visit  to  a  lady  at  Hayswater  makes 
us  wonder  why  William  did  not,  like  Andrea  del  Sarto,  continue  his  painting  of 
portraits  with  his  wife  as  model ! 

It  was  a  wet  day  and  she  had  been  to  a  malkiiig-jnatcli.  She  was  dressed  in  a  white 
muslin  gown,  a  black  velvet  spencer  and  a  Leghorn  hat  with  a  white  feather. 

Lucas,  "  Life  of  Lamb,"  pp.  317-31S. 


INTRODUCTION  XXVll 

difficult  for  us  to  conceive  as  it  is  easy  to  understand  why  they 
could  not  be  happy  together.^  Much  sooner  than  he  expected 
he  grew  tired  of  sitting  down  with  Sarah  "  to  dinner  on  a  boiled 
scrag  end  of  mutton  and  hot  potatoes  "  —  if  so  bountiful  a  re- 
past had  ever  been  prepared  by  the  improvident  Sarah.  In 
despair  he  decided  to  move  to  London. 

In  London  the  Hazlitts  took  the  house  at  19  York  Street, 
which  had  been  occupied  by  Milton  from  1652  to  1658,  and 
where  he  had  begun  "  Paradise  Lost "  and  had  written  several 
of  his  sonnets  and  much  of  his  prose.  The  house  was  owned 
by  Jeremy  Bentham,  who  lived  in  an  adjoining  mansion,  and 
whom  Hazlitt  has  vividly  described  "^  walking  in  his  garden. 

Hazlitt's  first  work  after  he  came  to  town  was  the  course  of 
public  lectures  on  the  history  of  English  philosophy,  which  he 
delivered  at  the  Russell  Institution.^  The  most  interesting  con- 
temporary record  of  these  lectures  is  the  diary  of  Crabb  Robinson, 
under  the  date  Januar}^  14,  1812  :  "  Heard  Hazlitt's  first  lecture 
on  the  history  of  English  philosophy.  He  seems  to  have  no  con- 
ception of  the  difference  between  a  lecture  and  a  book.  His 
lectures  can't  possibly  be  popular,  hardly  tolerable.  He  read  a 
sensible  and  excellent  introduction  on  philosophy  and  on  Hobbes, 
but  he  delivered  himself  in  a  low  monotonous  voice,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  intently  on  his  book,  not  once  daring  to  look  on  his  audience ; 
he  read,  too,  so  rapidly  that  no  one  could  possibly  follow  him, 
at  the  same  time  the  matter  he  read  was  of  a  kind  to  require 
reflection."  The  diary  of  this  date  abounds  in  comments  by 
Robinson  and  others  upon  Hazlitt  and  his  lectures.'*    Hazlitt  was 

1  The  humor  of  the  misaUiance  is  sometimes  brought  out  by  incidents  related 
by  his  contemporaries;  for  example,  the  christening  party  to  which  Ilaydon  was 
invited  and  which  did  not  take  place  ("  B.  R.  Haydon  and  his  Friends,"  p.  57). 

2  See  Hazlitt's  essay  on  Bentham  in  "  The  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  Works,  IV,  189. 

3  Plan  of  the  lectures  will  be  found  in  "  Memoirs,"  I,  192  ff. 

■*  It  is  difficult  to  suppress  one's  irritation  that  this  diary  should  have  been  so 
badly  edited  by  Sadler.  Not  only  are  most  important  passages  omitted  from  the 
daily  entries,  but  what  has  been  printed  has  repeatedly  been  altered  without 
apparent  reason. 


xxviii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

much  depressed  over  his  lectures,  and  threatened  to  give  up  the 
whole  series.  Friends  offered  bits  of  advice,  and  all  seemed  in- 
terested and  sympathetic.  On  the  next  Tuesday  night  (January 
2i)  he  "improved  vastly."  ..."  I  hope  he  will  now  get  on. 
He  read  half  his  first  lecture  at  B.  Montague's  last  night.  He 
was  to  read  the  whole,  but  abruptly  broke  off  and  could  not  be 
persuaded  to  read  the  remainder.  Lamb  and  other  friends  were 
there."  At  the  lecture,  Robinson  writes,  "  he  was  interrupted  by 
applause  several  times."  The  lectures  followed  on  consecutive 
Tuesday  nights,  with  two  exceptions,  March  lo  and  24.  Of  the 
former  date  Robinson  tells  us :  "  W.  H.  wrote  to  say  he  is  obliged 
to  postpone  his  lectures  and  I  fear  his  debts  oppress  him,  so 
that  he  cannot  proceed.  I  wish  I  could  afford  him  assistance, 
for  I  know  no  state  of  suffering  more  dreadful  than  that  of 
indigent  genius."  The  last  of  the  series  was  given  on  April  27. 
Of  the  last  lecture  Robinson  writes,  "  Very  well  delivered  and 
full  of  shrewd  observation." 

From  the  Robinson  diary  it  appears  that  Hazlitt  continued  his 
work  as  portrait  painter.-^  On  the  30th  of  June,  18 12,  Robinson 
called.  "  W.  Hazlitt  was  operating  on  Thomas  "  (the  brother  of 
Crabb  Robinson).  On  December  24, "  I  therefore  ventured  to  ask 
about  my  brother's  picture  which  he  promises  me  and  I  believe 
I  shall  get  it."  But  this  work  was  apparently  of  little  conse- 
quence, though  it  may  have  yielded  a  spare  penny.  His  real 
work  was  as  reporter  to  the  gallery  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
followed  by  employment  on  the  ATorning  Chronicle  under  the  edi- 
torship of  James  Perry.  How  this  new  engagement  came  about 
appears  from  certain  entries  in  Robinson's  diary,  September 
30,  1812:  "Met  Dr.  Stoddart  and  with  Miss  Lamb  with  whom 
I  chatted  about  Hazlitt.  H.,  at  the  same  time  that  he  went  to 
Perry  and  received  from  him  a  conditional  promise  of  being 
employed  by  him  as  a  reporter,  sent  Dr.  S.  to  Walter  [of  the 
Times]  and  Walter  has  promised  to  do  something  for  H.,  but  by 

1  Sec  March  10,  18 11,  etc. 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

this  injudicious  conduct  H.  has  exposed  himself  to  the  likelihood 
of  offending  either  \V.  or  P.  However  the  prospect  of  his  find- 
ing the  means  of  subsistence  is  by  this  greatly  improved."  On 
December  24  he  wrote:  "  Called  late  on  C.  Lamb.  The  party 
there.  Hazlitt  I  was  gratified  by  finding  in  his  high  spirits.  He 
finds  his  engagement  with  Perry  as  Parliamentary  Reporter  very 
easy,  and  the  4  guineas  a  week  keeps  his  head  above  water.  He 
seems  quite  happy."  In  this  way  Hazlitt's  career  as  a  writer 
for  newspapers  and  magazines  began  and  lasted  to  the  end  of 
his  life.  From  parliamentary  reporter  he  passed  to  the  position 
as  dramatic  critic,  writer  on  art,  and  miscellaneous  essayist. 
In  18 1 3  he  was  called  upon  by  Francis  Jeffrey  to  review  books 
for  the  Edinburgh  Jievieia,  and  in  turn  he  contributed  to  the 
Examiner,  Cha?npion,  and  the  Times.  The  account  of  Hazlitt's 
connection  with  these  publications  we  have  reser\'ed  for  more 
detailed  discussion  in  a  separate  section. 

Hazlitt's  finances  were  never  prosperous,  but  he  was  earning 
a  fair  income,  perhaps  never  more  than  five  or  six  hundred 
pounds  a  year.  However,  his  tastes  were  simple  and  his  habits 
not  extravagant.  Soon  after  he  moved  to  London  he  began  to 
drink  heavily,  but  soon  realizing  that  he  could  not  bear  up  under 
the  habit,  he  abstained  completely  from  fermented  liquors, 
substituting  strong  tea,  which  he  drank  often  and  in  great 
quantities  as  long  as  he  lived.^ 

Robinson  writes  of  the  handsome  room  in  which  he  found 
Hazlitt.  On  April  29,  1813,  "  spent  the  evening  which  I  have 
not  done  for  a  long  time  before  at  C.  Lamb's.  At  whist  as 
usual.  Chat  with  Hazlitt  who  finds  himself  made  comfortable 
by  a  situation  which  furnishes  him  with  the  necessaries  of  life, 
keeps  his  best  faculties  not  employed  but  awake,  and  I  do 
not  think  it  is  much  to  be  feared  that  his  faculties  will  there- 
fore decline.    He  has  a  most  powerful  intellect  and  needs  only 

1  "  Literarj'  Remains,"  p.  xlvi.  Fatmore,  ''  Friends  and  Acquaintances,"  1, 
302-308. 


XXX  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

encouragement  to  manifest  this  to  the  world  by  a  work  which 
could  not  be  overlooked."  So  Hazlitt  was  occupied  with  criticism 
and  essay  writing.  His  articles  became  the  subject  of  discussion 
among  his  friends  and  found  stanch  supporters  as  well  as 
aggressive  enemies.  His  splendid  discriminating  criticism  of  art 
drew  hearty  admiration  from  Flaxman ;  his  blind  devotion  to 
Buonapartism  was  not  approved  but  disregarded.  His  attacks 
on  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  caused  many  heated  discussions 
and  alienated  many  friends.  At  any  rate,  he  was  being  talked 
about.  Not  only  did  his  writing  provoke  discussion ;  he  was 
sought  after  as  a  talker.  Robinson  writes  December  9,  18 16: 
"  I  went  to  Alsager's.  There  I  met  the  Lambs,  Hazlitt,  &c.  .  .  . 
Hazlitt  was  sober,  argumentative,  acute,  and  interesting.  I  did 
not  converse  with  him  but  enjoyed  his  conversation  with  others." 
Miss  Mitford  has  left  an  amusing  incident,^  showing  something 
of  Hazlitt's  temper  as  well  as  the  regard  in  which  he  was  begin- 
ning to  be'  held.  After  Hazlitt  had  left  the  Morning  Chronicle 
"  Perry  remembered  him  as  an  old  acquaintance  and  asked  him 
to  dinner,  and  a  large  party  to  meet  him,  to  hear  him  talk  and 
show  him  off  as  the  lion  of  the  day.  The  lion  came,  smiled 
and  bowed,  handed  Miss  Bentley  to  the  dining-room,  asked 
Miss  Perry  to  take  wine,  said  once  '  Yes '  and  twice  '  No '  and 
never  uttered  another  word  the  whole  evening.  The  most  pro- 
voking part  of  this  scene  was  that  he  was  gracious  and  polite 
past  all  expression,  a  perfect  pattern  of  mute  elegance,  a  silent 
Lord  Chesterfield,  and  his  imlucky  host  had  the  misfortune  to 
be  very  thoroughly  enraged  without  anything  to  complain  of." 
The  Mr.  Alsager  mentioned  above  was  the  commercial  editor 
of  the  Times,  and  also  a  member  of  the  Committee  of  the 
Surrey  Institution.  Through  him  it  was  proposed  that  Hazlitt 
should  give  a  course  of  lectures  on  the  English  Poets.  The 
lectures  were  delivered  in  the  early  part  of  18 18  and  met  with 
unqualified  success.    Even  Crabb  Robinson,  who  had  broken 

1  A.  G.  L'Estrange,  "  Life  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford,"  II,  47. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

with  Ilazlitt  on  account  of  his  attacks  upon  Wordsworth,  was 
delighted  with  the  lectures.  Talfourd's  account  of  them  is  most 
enthusiastic.^  "  He  was  not  eloquent  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
term,  for  his  thoughts  were  too  weighty  to  be  moved  along  by 
the  shallow  stream  of  feeling  which  an  evening's  excitement  can 
rouse.  He  wrote  all  his  lectures  and  read  them  as  they  were 
written  ;  but  his  deep  voice  and  earnest  manner  suited  his  mat- 
ter well.  He  seemed  to  dig  into  his  subject  —  and  not  in  vain." 
The  first  lectures  had  been  so  successful  that  Hazlitt  under- 
took a  second  course  on  the  English  Comic  Writers,  and  then  a 
third  on  the  Dramatic  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth.  The 
three  series  appeared  in  three  volumes,  respectively  in  the  years 
1818,  18 19,  1820.  Immediately  after  the  publication  of  the 
first,  Gifford  of  the  Quarterly  Review  pounced  upon  the  author. 
He  warned  his  readers  against  this  "incoherent  jumble  of  grand 
words."  Blackiiwod  joined  in  the  chase,  and  though  the  Edin- 
burgh Revieiv  and  the  Scotsman  had  occasionally  discriminating 
reviews  of  some  of  Hazlitt's  writing,  they  followed  the  lead  of 
the  Quarterly  and  Blackivood,  and  applied  to  Hazlitt  a  list  of 
epithets  which  has  probably  not  been  equaled  in  the  annals 
of  abuse.  He  was  called  an  "  incendiary,"  a  "  Radical,"  a 
"  Buonapartist,"  a  "  cockney  scribbler,"  a  ''  slang-whanger,"  a 
"  slanderer  of  the  human  race,"  and  ''  pimpled  Hazlitt."  That 
Hazlitt  could  take  care  of  himself  the  world  soon  learned.  In 
a  letter,  probably  of  18 18,  Keats  expressed  what  many  people 
felt :  "  Hazlitt  has  damned  the  bigoted  and  the  blue-stockinged  — 
how  durst  the  man  ?  He  is  your  only  good  damner,  and  if  ever 
I  am  damned  I  should  like  him  to  damn  me."  Naturally  of  a 
shy  disposition,  Hazlitt  did  not  wish  to  pick  a  quarrel,  but  he 
was  stung  to  the  quick  by  the  epithets  which  came  from  every 
direction.  Gifford  had  been  unfair,  insolent,  and  arrogant,  and 
Hazlitt  began  to  brood  over  this  injustice  and  the  kind  of  man 
who  had  attacked  him.    To  add  injury  to  insult,  Gifford's  attacks 

1  See  "  Literary  Remains,'"  pp.  xivii  ff. 


xxxii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

had  practically  stopped,  so  Hazlitt  thought,  the  sale  of  the 
"Characters  of  Shakespear's  Plays."  ^  He  went  straight  to  his 
subject  and  made  a  sketch  as  clear  as  a  portrait  of  this  man,  who 
became  for  the  moment  the  incarnation  of  all  that  was  mean, 
dishonest,  and  vile.  Though  most  of  the  invective  of  this  time 
is  not  pleasant  reading,  we  must  admit  the  "Letter  to  Gifford" 
(1819)  to  the  category  of  best  satiric  letters,  equal  in  virulence 
and  concise  expression  to  Johnson's  "  Letter  to  Chesterfield  " 
and  Burke's  "  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord." 

While  we  are  occupied  with  these  bitter  quarrels  between 
Hazlitt  and  his  critics,  we  should  not  forget  that  there  was  a 
Mrs.  Hazlitt.  Hazlitt  had  not  forgotten  her,  although  he  had 
not  lived  with  her  since  18 19.  He  had  led  a  nomadic  existence 
in  London,  trying  first  this  lodging  place  and  then  that  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  city.  Sarah  Hazlitt  had  probably  returned  to 
the  house  at  Winterslow,  but  came  occasionally  on  visits  to 
London.  Only  one  thing  they  had  in  common  —  an  affection 
for  their  son  William.  The  boy  was  the  link  that  bound  them 
for  a  long  time  after  they  ceased  to  live  together.  Realizing  their 
utter  incompatibility,  they  decided  to  secure  a  formal  divorce.^ 
Under  the  circumstances  this  was  a  legal  impossibility  in  Eng- 
land, but  the  divorce  might  be  easily  obtained  after  forty  days' 

1  Hazlitt  wrote:  "  My  book  sold  well  —  the  first  edition  had  gone  off  in  six 
weeks  —  till  that  review  came  out.  1  had  just  prepared  a  second  edition,  but  then 
the  Quarterly  told  the  public  that  I  was  a  fool  and  a  dunce  ;  and  more,  that  I  was 
an  evil-disposed  person  ;  and  the  public,  supposing  Gifford  to  know  best,  confessed 
it  had  been  a  great  ass  to  be  pleased  when  it  ought  not  to  be,  and  the  sale  com- 
pletely stopped  "  ("  Memoirs,"  I,  228). 

That  the  effect  of  Gifford's  abuse  was  probably  not  so  bad  as  Hazlitt  described 
has  been  shown  by  A.  W.  Pollard.  See  biographical  note  to  his  edition  of  "  The 
Characters,"  pp.  7-S. 

2  That  his  own  personal  experience  is  shadowed  in  the  advice  to  his  son,  we 
may  readily  surmise.  "  If  you  ever  marry,  I  would  wish  you  to  marry  the  woman 
you  like.  Do  not  be  guided  by  the  recommendation  of  your  friends.  Nothing 
will  atone  for  or  overcome  an  original  distaste.  It  will  only  increase  from  intimacy, 
and  if  you  are  to  live  separate,  it  is  better  not  to  come  together,  'i'here  is  no  use 
in  dragging  a  chain  through  life  unless  it  binds  one  to  the  object  we  love  " 
(Hazlitt,  "  Advice  to  a  Schoolboy,"  Works,  XII,  435). 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

residence  in  Scotland.'  They  proceeded  to  Edinburgh  to  wait 
for  the  forty  days.  They  occasionally  met  over  a  cup  of  tea  and 
discussed  prospects.  While  Hazlitt  lectured  at  Glasgow,  Sarah 
visited  parts  of  Scotland  and  Ireland.  The  disgraceful  affair 
came  to  an  end  with  the  granting  of  the  divorce  in  June,  1822, 
and  both  returned  to  England  greatly  relieved.  However,  they 
saw  something  of  each  other  and  Sarah  visited  her  former  hus- 
band's mother  and  sister,  Peggy,  and  wrote  affectionate  letters 
to  the  latter. 

Their  determination  to  secure  a  divorce  may  have  been 
strengthened  by  Hazlitt's  infatuation  for  Sarah  Walker,  a  tailor's 
daughter,  whose  mother  kept  the  lodging  house  in  Southampton 
Buildings,  Chancery  Lane,  where  Hazlitt  was  then  living.  The 
whole  story  -  is  offensive  to  us  now,  but  we  may  have  some 
consolation  from  the  fact  that  we  now  have  all  the  details,  and 
that  they  might  easily  have  been  worse.  Procter  described  the  girl 
as  having  "  a  round  small  face,  glassy  eyes,  a  snake-like  walk  and 
being  very  silent  and  demure,  with  a  steady,  unmoving,  uncomfort- 
able gaze  upon  the  person  she  was  addressing."  What  her  real 
character  was  we  cannot  quite  know,  since  we  have  only  Hazlitt's 
account,  and  even  that  makes  us  respect  her  wisdom  in  refusing 
to  marry  Hazlitt.  But  there  seems  to  be  no  reason  to  doubt  the 
genuineness  of  Hazlitt's  passion,  although  his  "  Liber  Amoris," 
which  gives  us  the  story,  does  not  bear  all  the  marks  of  genuine 
passion.  Perhaps  the  most  disgusting  aspect  of  the  whole  affair 
was  his  desire  to  tell  everybody  about  it.  Procter  gives  us  the 
account.''  "  His  intellect  was  completely  subdued  by  an  insane 
passion.  He  was,  for  a  time,  unable  to  think  or  talk  of  anything 
else.  He  abandoned  criticism  and  books  as  idle  matters,  and  fa- 
tigued every  person  whom  he  met  by  expressions  of  her  love,  of 


1  For  a  complete  account,  see  Birrell,  "William  Hazlitt,"  pp.  170  ff.  For 
all  the  details  and  the  letters  of  Sarah  Hazlitt,  see  Le  Gallienne's  edition  of 
"  Liber  Amoris."  2  '•■  Liber  Amoris,"  edited  by  Le  Gallienne. 

3  Procter,  "  Autobiographical  Fragments  "  (1873). 


xxxiv  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

her  deceit,  and  of  his  own  vehement  disappointment.  This  was 
when  he  lived  in  Southampton  Buildings,  Holborn.  Upon  one 
occasion  I  know  that  he  told  the  story  of  his  attachment  to  five 
different  persons  in  the  same  day,  and  at  each  time  entered  into 
minute  details  of  his  love  story.    '  I  am  a  cursed  fool,'  said  he  to 

me.     '  I  saw  J going  into  Wills'  Coffee  House  yesterday 

morning :  he  spoke  to  me.  I  followed  him  into  the  house,  and 
whilst  he  lunched  I  told  him  the  whole  story.   Then  I  wandered 

into  the  Regent's  Park,  where  I  met  one  of  M 's  sons.    I 

walked  with  him  some  time,  and  on  his  using  some  civil  ex- 
pression, by  Jove,  Sir,  I  told  him  the  whole  story.  (Here  he 
mentioned  one  other  instance  which  I  forget.)  '  Well,  Sir,  (he 
went  on)  I  then  went  and  called  on  Haydon,  but  he  was  out. 
There  was  only  his  man,  Salmon,  there,  but,  by  Jove,  I  could 
not  help  myself.  It  all  came  out  —  the  whole  cursed  story. 
Afterwards  I  went  to  look  at  some  lodgings  at  Pimlico.  The 
landlady  at  one  place,  after  some  explanations  as  to  rent,  &c., 
said  to  me  very  kindly,  '  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well,  Sir  ? ' 
'  No,  ma'am,'  said  I,  '  I  am  not  well,'  and  on  enquiring  further, 
the  devil  take  me  if  I  did  not  let  out  the  whole  story  from  begin- 
ning to  end.'  "  At  least  Hazlitt  saw  no  humor  in  the  affair.  "  I 
am  in  some  sense  proud  that  I  can  feel  this  dreadful  passion  — 
it  gives  one  a  kind  of  rank  in  the  kingdom  of  love."  So  he  wrote 
down  and  sold  for  ^loo  his  "  Liber  Amoris."  The  book  consists 
of  three  parts :  first,  conversations  supposed  to  have  been  held  be- 
tween the  anonymous  author  and  the  girl ;  second,  extracts  actually 
addressed  to  an  unnamed  friend  (Patmore),  in  which  are  unfolded 
the  passion,  fury,  and  delusion  of  the  writer,  who  declared  the 
persistency  of  his  devotion  ;  third,  three  letters  to  another  friend 
(Sheridan  Knowles),  giving  the  conclusion  of  the  affair  —  the 
treachery,  wantonness,  and  hypocrisy  of  the  girl  who  would  have 
nothing  to  say  to  him,  preferring  the  addresses  of  another  lodger. 
As  might  be  expected,  such  a  book  as  the  "  Liber  Amoris"  pre- 
tended to  be  has  met  with  a  reception  of  mingled  acquiescence 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

and  disgust.  Dc  Quinccy  ^  called  it  "  an  explosion  of  frenzy. 
He  threw  out  his  clamorous  anguish  to  the  clouds  and  to  the 
winds  and  to  the  air,  caring  not  who  might  listen,  who  might 
sympathize,  or  who  might  sneer  —  the  sole  necessity  for  him 
was  to  empty  his  overburdened  spirit."  Of  various  comments  ^ 
we  quote  only  two,  the  first  by  Mrs.  Jameson.  ''  Of  all  the  his- 
tories I  have  read  of  the  aberrations  of  human  passion,  nothing 
ever  struck  me  with  a  sort  of  amazed  and  painful  pity  as  Hazlitt's 
'  Liber  Amoris.'  The  man  was  in  love  with  a  servant  girl,  who 
in  the  eyes  of  others  possessed  no  particular  charms  of  mind  or 
person,  yet  did  the  mighty  love  of  this  strong,  masculine,  and 
gifted  being  lift  her  into  a  sort  of  goddess-ship  and  make  his 
idolatry  in  its  intense  earnestness  and  reality  assume  something 
of  the  sublimity  of  an  act  of  faith,  and  in  its  expression  take  a 
flight  equal  to  anything  that  poetry  or  fiction  have  left  us.  It 
was  all  so  terribly  real,  he  sued  with  such  a  vehemence,  he 
suffered  with  such  resistance  that  the  powerful  intellect  reeled, 
tempest-tost,  and  might  have  foundered  but  for  the  gift  of 
expression." 

At  the  other  extreme  is  Austin  Dobson,  who,  we  believe,  has 
put  the  case  more  aptly  and  more  nearly  as  it  stands  to-day. 
"  The  whole  sentimental  structure  of  the  '  Liber  Amoris  '  now 
sinks  below  the  stage  and  joins  the  realm  of  things  unspeakable  : 
'vile  kitchen  stuff,  fit  only  for  the  midden.'  " 

We  may  readily  imagine  the  glee  with  which  the  Quarterly 
and  Blackwood  read  this  book,  and  recognized  at  once  their 
victim.  They  put  forth  their  best  efforts,  but  nothing  that  they 
could  conceive  could  injure  the  man  who  had  already  allowed  to 
be  printed  a  piece  of  such  humiliating  self-debasement.  Perhaps 
some  consolation  may  be  gained  from  the  fact  that  during  this 
period  Hazlitt  wrote  some  of  his  best  essays,  and  "  his  name 

1  Works,  Vol.  V,  edited  by  Masson. 

2  See  also  American  Whig  Review,  January,  1S47  ;  Temple  Bar,  18S1,  p.  330  ; 
Academy,  September  7,  1889 ;  and  Introduction  to  Le  Gallienne's  edition. 


xxxvi  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

and  character  were  but  momentarily  dimmed  by  what,  indeed, 
was  but  a  momentary  delusion."  ^ 

Meantime  one  other  affair  seemed  for  a  time  to  cast  a  shadow 
over  Hazlitt.  In  1820  the  London  Magazine  was  established, 
with  John  Scott  as  its  editor,  a  very  agreeable  man  and  brilliant 
writer.  The  magazine  included  essays  by  Hazlitt,  Leigh  Hunt, 
and  Lamb.  Soon  after  it  had  started,  it  made  a  furious  onslaught 
upon  Blackwood^  whether  from  a  desire  to  court  notoriety  or  to 
avenge  some  of  the  wrongs  done  to  Hazlitt  and  others  of  their 
contributors.  Lockhart,  the  son-in-law  of  Scott,  editor  of  Black- 
wood, felt  aggrieved,  especially  since  his  name  had  been  men- 
tioned in  the  offending  articles,  and  demanded  an  apology  from 
Scott,  who  was  supposed  to  be  the  author  of  the  attacks.  The 
affair  went  from  bad  to  worse.  A  duel  was  fought  and  Scott 
was  mortally  wounded.^  The  circumstances  were  most  distress- 
ing. Enemies  of  Hazlitt  (especially  the  poet  Campbell)  tried  to 
make  the  world  believe  that  he  had  been  the  provoking  cause  of 
the  duel,  but  no  one  to-day  can  find  the  slightest  evidence  to 
incriminate  Hazlitt.^ 

Within  two  years  after  his  divorce,  in  1822,  and  his  infatua- 
tion with  Sarah  Walker,  he  married  again,  apparently  as  unfor- 
tunately as  before.  His  second  wife  was  a  Mrs.  Bridgewater 
—  it  had  been  Sarah  Shepherd,  Sarah  Stoddart,  Sarah  Walker, 
this  time  it  was  Isabella  —  the  former  wife  of  a  Colonel  Bridge- 
water,  who  had  left  her  three  hundred  pounds  a  year.  "  A  cynic 
might  point  a  moral  from  the  fact  that  the  only  events  of  Hazlitt  s 
life  which  were  utterly  free  from  the  intrusion  of  passion  were 
his  ventures  into  matrimony."*    On  September  i,  1824,  they 

1  Remark  by  his  son. 

2  The  duel  took  place  at  Chalk  Farm,  February  16,  182 1.  Scott  died  on  the 
27th,  leaving  a  wife  and  two  children. 

8  The  statements  of  Scott  were  printed  in  the  London  Maj^aziiic,  February, 
1821.  The  whole  question  has  been  discussed  by  Mr.  Andrew  Lang  in  his 
"Life  of  Lockhart,"  I,  250  H. 

*  Mr.  Paul  Elmer  Moore's  essay  on  Hazlitt  in  "Shelburne  Essays,"  Vol.  IL 


INTRODUCTION  XXXvii 

started  to  the  Continent,  going  through  Paris,  where  they  visited 
the  galleries  and  saw  some  plays  at  the  theaters ;  thence  to 
Lyon,  Turin,  Florence,  Rome,  Venice,  through  Switzerland, 
down  the  Rhine,  through  Holland,  and  thence  home  in  October, 
1825.  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  the  second,  informed  her  husband  that  she 
did  not  care  to  go  home  with  him.  She  returned  to  Scotland  ^  to 
live,  while  Hazlitt  and  his  son,  who  had  joined  them  somewhere 
on  the  Continent,  came  back  to  London.  Sketches  of  the  travels 
appeared  in  the  Morning  Chronicle  and  were  subsequently 
published  in  1826,  with  the  title  "  Notes  of  a  Journey  through 
France  and  Italy."  ^  These  notes  make  very  interesting  reading. 
They  describe  scenes  in  his  coach  rides,  visits  to  picture  galler- 
ies, especially  in  Paris  and  Florence.  They  contain  vivid  de- 
scriptions of  faces  of  people  whom  he  sees  on  the  way ;  they 
express  opinions  on  many  subjects,  and  reveal  a  keen  observer 
of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  people.  He  writes  enthusi- 
astically of  the  great  pictures,  most  eloquently  of  natural  scenery 
in  Italy  and  Switzerland.  He  is  disappointed  with  Rome.^ 
"  This  is  not  the  Rome  I  expected  to  see."  He  writes  a  splendid 
description  of  the  illumination  of  St.  Peter's  and  adds :  "  After 
all  St.  Peter's  does  not  seem  to  me  the  chief  boast  or  most  im- 
posing display  of  the  Catholic  religion.  Old  Melrose  Abbey, 
battered  to  pieces  and  in  ruins  as  it  is,  impresses  me  much  more 
than  the  collective  pride  and  pomp  of  Michael  Angelo's  great 
work."  He  likes  the  palaces  of  Venice.''  "  I  never  saw  palaces 
anywhere  but  at  Venice."  But,  after  all,  he  is  glad  to  be  back 
in  England.  "  However  delightful  or  striking  the  objects  may 
be  abroad,  they  do  not  take  the  same  hold  of  you,  nor  can 
you  identify  yourself  with  them  as  at  home." 

Under  the  lead  of  a  cruel  fate  Hazlitt  had  set  to  work  on  a 
life  of  Napoleon.    With  blind  obstinacy  Hazlitt  had  idolized  him 

1  We  know  almost   nothing  of   this  woman,  not  even   her   maiden   name. 
Hazlitt  met  her  in  a  stagecoach.    She  died  in  Scotland  in  1869. 

2  Works,  TX,  S3  ff.  3  Ibid.  chap.  xix.  *  Ibid.  chap,  xxiii. 


xxxviii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

and  regarded  him  as  the  veritable  savior  of  the  people.  He 
had  watched  with  great  rejoicing  his  rise  from  obscurity  into 
world-wide  notoriety ;  he  had  seen  his  idol  subjected  to  most 
complete  humiliation.  In  casting  about  for  a  subject  of  a  work 
which  he  wished  to  leave  as  a  monument  he  could  conceive  of 
nothing  better  than  the  defense  of  this  picturesque  hero.  At 
Vevey,  on  his  tour  in  1825,  he  had  confided  his  purpose  to 
Medwin:^  "I  will  write  a  Life  of  Napoleon,  though  it  is  yet  too 
early ;  some  have  a  film  before  their  eyes ;  some  want  magnify- 
ing glasses ;  none  see  him  as  he  is  in  true  proportion."  For 
three  years  Hazlitt  worked  untiringly,  giving  what  time  he  could 
spare  from  his  more  profitable  miscellaneous  essays.  The  task 
often  oppressed  him.  In  the  preface,  which  at  first  was  not 
printed  as  a  preface,  Hazlitt  wrote :  "  There  were  two  other 
feelings  that  influenced  me  on  the  subject  —  a  love  of  glory, 
when  it  did  not  interfere  with  other  things,  and  the  wish  to  see 
personal  merit  prevail  over  external  rank  and  circumstance.  I 
felt  pride  (not  envy)  to  think  there  was  one  reputation  in  mod- 
em times  equal  to  the  ancients,  and  at  seeing  one  man  greater 
than  the  throne  he  sat  upon."  The  first  two  volumes  were 
published  in  1828  and  the  last  two  in  1830.  The  work  attracted 
little  attention,  partly  because  it  appeared  subsequent  to  a  life 
by  Walter  Scott  (1827),  a  name  to  conjure  with,  but  not  of 
sufficient  magic  to  sell  a  tedious  and  superficial  life  of  an  un- 
popular hero.  Hazlitt's  work  met  the  same  fate,  partly  because 
the  subject  was  hateful  to  the  public,  and  largely  because  Hazlitt 
was  writing  before  time  had  cleared  away  the  rancor  of  party 
strife.  The  "Life"  had  no  sale,  and,  combined  with  the  failure 
of  the  publishers,  meant  a  total  loss  of  profits  for  all  the  labor 
expended  during  three  busy  years.  His  loss  was  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  the  merit  of  the  work,  for  though  it  had  no  rank  as 
history,  it  possessed  a  style  which  is  often  brilliant  in  its  vivid 
and  picturesque  description  of  characters  and  incidents. 

'  'I'hc  friend  of  Byron  in  his  "Conversation  with  Lord  Byron,"  1824. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

The  remaining  years  of  Hazlitt's  life  were  without  important 
incident.  Since  1818  he  had  gone  often  to  "The  Hutt,"  a 
secluded  tavern  near  Winterslow,  and  spent  many  a  day  alone, 
dreaming  over  the  happy  memories  of  the  past  and  writing  some 
of  his  most  delightful  essays.  He  liked  to  walk  across  the  coun- 
try about  Salisbury,  over  to  Stonehenge,  and  through  the  lanes 
of  Wiltshire.  Glimpses  of  days  spent  there  in  summer  and  in 
winter  appear  in  the  essays,  which  come  to  be  more  personal 
and  autobiographical.  In  London  he  lived  first  in  one  place, 
then  in  another — in  Down  Street,  in  Half  Moon  Street,  in  Bou- 
verie  Street,  and  finally  at  No.  6  Frith  Street,  Soho.  Poverty 
pressed  upon  him  and  kept  him  busily  writing  to  the  end.  He 
had  few  friends,  but  he  must  work,  and  with  his  usual  clear  mind 
he  wrote  the  last  essays,  "The  Free  Admission"  and  "The  Sick 
Chamber,"  before  the  final  summons.  Through  the  summer  of 
1830  he  first  knew  the  struggle  with  death.  He  longed  for  his 
mother,  and  begged  that  she  might  be  brought  to  him,  but  she 
was  eighty-four  years  old  and  in  Devonshire,  and  could  not 
come.  The  fight  was  not  to  be  long.  On  the  eighteenth  of  Sep- 
tember, 1830,  he  died  in  the  presence  of  his  son  and  his  dearest 
friend,  Charles  Lamb.  His  last  words  seem  strange,  "Well,  I 've 
had  a  happy  life." 

Lamb,  the  best  friend  any  man  could  ever  have,  summed  it 
all  up  in  his  letter  to  Southey:^  "From  the  other  gentleman 
[Hazlitt]  I  neither  expect  nor  desire  (as  he  is  well  assured) 
any  such  concessions.  What  hath  soured  him,  and  made  him 
suspect  his  friends  of  infidelity  towards  him,  when  there  was 
no  such  matter,  I  know  not.  I  stood  well  with  him  for  fifteen 
years  (the  proudest  of  my  life)  and  have  ever  spoken  my  full 
mind  of  him  to  some  to  whom  his  panegyric  must  naturally  be 
least  tasteful.  I  never  in  thought  swerved  from  him ;  I  never 
betrayed  him ;  I  never  slackened  in  my  admiration  of  him ;  I 
was  the  same  to  him  (neither  better  nor  worse),  though  he  could 

1  First  printed  in  London  Magazine^  October,  1823. 


xl  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

not  see  it,  as  in  the  days  when  he  thought  fit  to  trust  me.  At 
this  instant  he  may  be  preparing  for  me  some  compliment  above 
my  deserts,  as  he  has  sprinkled  many  such  among  his  admirable 
books,  for  which  I  rest  his  debtor ;  or  for  anything  I  know  or 
can  guess  to  the  contrary,  he  may  be  about  to  read  a  lecture  on 
my  weaknesses.  He  is  welcome  to  them  (as  he  was  to  my  hum- 
ble hearth)  if  they  can  divert  a  spleen  or  ventilate  a  fit  of  sullen- 
ness.  I  wish  he  would  not  quarrel  with  the  world  at  the  rate  he 
does  ;  but  the  reconciliation  must  be  effected  by  himself,  and  I 
despair  of  living  to  see  that  day.  But  protesting  against  much 
that  he  has  written  and  some  things  which  he  chooses  to  do ; 
judging  him  by  his  conversations,  which  I  enjoyed  so  long  and 
relished  so  deeply,  or  by  his  books,  in  those  places  where  no 
clouding  passion  intervenes,  I  should  belie  my  own  conscience 
if  I  said  less  than  that  I  think  W.  H.  to  be  in  his  natural  and 
healthy  state  one  of  the  wisest  and  finest  spirits  breathing.  So 
far  from  being  ashamed  of  that  intimacy  which  was  betwixt  us, 
it  is  my  boast  that  I  was  able  for  so  many  years  to  have  pre- 
served it  entire ;  and  I  think  I  shall  go  to  my  grave  without 
finding,  or  expecting  to  find,  such  another  companion." 

With  the  true  devotion  of  a  sincere  friend  Lamb  enjoyed 
Hazlitt's  writing  to  the  end  of  his  life.  Only  a  few  months  be- 
fore he  died  he  said,  "  I  can  read  no  prose  now,  though  Hazlitt 
sometimes,  to  be  sure,  but  then  Hazlitt's  worth  all  modern  prose 
writers  put  together."  ^ 

Before  we  turn  altogether  from  the  life  of  Hazlitt  we  must 
quote  a  passage  from  Talfourd's'-  description  of  Hazlitt's  per- 
sonal appearance:  "  In  person,  Mr.  Hazlitt  was  of  the  middle 
size,  with  a  handsome  and  eager  countenance,  worn  by  sickness 
and  thought,  and  dark  hair,  which  had  curled  stiffly  over  the 


1  Report  of  a  breakfast  at  Crabb  Robinson's,  June  19,  1834,  by  N.  P.  Willis. 
See  Lucas,  "  Life  of  Charles  Lamb,"  p.  645. 

2  "  Literary  Remains,"  p.  xlvi.    See  also  Patmorc,  "  Friends  and  Acquaint- 
ances," II,  302  ff. 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

temples,  and  was  onl)-  of  late  years  sprinkled  with  grey.  His  gait 
was  slouching  and  awkward,  and  his  dress  neglected  ;  but  when 
he  began  to  talk,  he  could  not  be  mistaken  for  a  common  man. 
In  the  company  of  persons  with  whom  he  was  not  familiar,  his 
bashfulness  was  painful ;  but  when  he  became  entirely  at  ease, 
and  entered  on  a  favourite  topic,  no  one's  conversation  was  ever 
more  delightful.  He  did  not  talk  for  effect,  to  dazzle,  or  surprise, 
or  annoy,  but  with  the  most  simple  and  honest  desire  to  make  his 
view  of  the  subject  entirely  apprehended  by  his  hearer.  There 
was  sometimes  an  obvious  struggle  to  do  this  to  his  own  satis- 
faction ;  he  seemed  labouring  to  bring  his  thought  to  light  from 
its  deep  lurking  place ;  and,  wdth  modest  distrust  of  that  power 
of  expression  which  he  had  found  so  late  in  life,  he  often  be- 
trayed a  fear  that  he  had  failed  to  make  himself  understood, 
and  recurred  to  the  subject  again  and  again,  that  he  might  be 
assured  he  had  succeeded." 

II.  AS  CRITIC  OF  THE  DRAMA 

Important  among  Hazlitt's  writings  are  his  criticisms  of  the 
stage.  Not  only  were  they  his  first  continuous  work  after  he 
devoted  himself  to  the  pursuit  of  literature,  but  they  marked  an 
epoch  in  the  history  of  theatrical  criticism.  Before  Hazlitt's 
time  the  honest  reviews  of  plays  were  not  known.  Leigh  Hunt 
knew  the  situation,  perhaps,  better  than  any  man,  and  described 
it  in  his  "Autobiography."  ^  "  Puffing  and  plenty  of  tickets  were 
the  system  of  the  day.  It  was  an  interchange  of  amenities  over 
the  dinner  table,  a  flattery  of  power  on  the  one  side  and  puns 
on  the  other,  and  what  the  public  took  for  a  criticism  on  a  play 
was  a  draft  upon  the  box  office  or  reminiscence  of  last  Thurs- 
day's salmon  and  lobster  sauce.  The  custom  was  to  write  as 
short  and  as  favorable  a  paragraph  on  the  new  piece  as  could 
be ;  to  say  that  Bannister  was  '  excellent '  and  Miss  Jordan 

1  "  Autobiography,"  chap,  vii,  p.  152. 


xlii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

'  charming ' ;  to  notice  the  crowded  house  or  invent  it,  if  neces- 
sary ;  and  to  conclude  by  observing  that  '  the  whole  went  off 
with  eclat.' "  Leigh  Hunt  saw  the  opportunity  for  a  new  de- 
partment, and  when  the  Examiner  appeared,  introduced  as  one 
of  its  most  popular  features  a  succession  of  appreciative  com- 
ments on  plays,  actors,  and  theaters.  The  Examiner  was  a 
weekly  journal,  independent  in  politics  and  strongly  radical,  but 
in  such  troublous  times  soon  came  to  grief  by  its  publication 
of  libelous  articles.  For  the  attacks  on  the  prince  regent  its 
editors,  John  and  Leigh  Hunt,  were  imprisoned  in  February, 
1813.  Though  the  confinement  did  not  interfere  with  the  pub- 
lication of  the  paper,  it  prevented  Hunt  from  seeing  plays.^ 

Hazlitt  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  in  London  in  the  position 
as  parliamentary  reporter  on  the  Morning  Chronicle^  the  lead- 
ing Whig  paper,  which  was  owned  and  edited  by  James  Perry. 
Both  Perry  and  Hazlitt  saw  the  opportunity  for  the  new  line  of 
criticism,  and  to  Hazlitt  was  delegated  the  new  work. 

He  wrote  his  first  criticism  for  the  issue  of  October  18,  18 13, 
and  contributed  to  that  paper  some  of  his  best  articles,  such  as 
those  on  Mrs.  Siddons,  Kean,  and  other  famous  actors.  The 
inevitable  conflict,  however,  which  has  often  happened  between 
the  man  of  business  and  the  man  of  genius,  was  not  long  post- 
poned, and  ended  by  bringing  to  a  close  Hazlitt's  connection 
with  Perry's  paper  on  May  27,  18 14.  Miss  Mary  Russell  Mit- 
ford^  knew  both  men  and  wrote  in  her  letter:  "  I  was  at  Tavi- 
stock House  and  very  well  remember  the  doleful  visage  with 
which  Mr.  Perry  used  to  contemplate  the  long  column  of  criti- 
cism, and  how  he  used  to  execrate  '  the  damned  fellow's  damned 

1  This  was  a  splendid  era  for  the  English  stage.  The  Kembles  —  Charles, 
John,  and  Mrs.  Siddons — were  at  their  zenith.  Suett,  Munden,  Bannister,  Mathew, 
Elliston,  Liston,  Booth,  Young,  and  Master  Betty  were  conspicuous  in  plays  of 
the  Elizabethan  period,  of  the  Restoration,  and  of  the  eighteenth  centur}'. 

For  a  sketch  of  theatrical  conditions  of  the  time,  see  Introduction  to  ''The 
Dramatic  Essays  of  Leigh  Hunt,"  edited  by  Archer  and  Lowe. 

2  "  Life  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford,"  edited  by  L 'Estrange,  11,47.  See  also 
Hazlitt's  essay,  "  On  Patronage  and  Puffing,"  Works,  VI,  292. 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

stuff '  for  filling  up  so  much  of  the  paper  in  the  very  height  of 
the  advertisement  season.  I  shall  never  forget  his  long  face. 
It  was  the  only  time  of  the  day  that  I  ever  saw  it  long  or  sour. 
He  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  that  he  had  a  man  of  genius 
in  his  pay,  not  the  most  remote  perception  of  the  merit  of  writ- 
ing, nor  the  slightest  companionship  with  the  author.  He  hired 
him  as  you  hire  your  footman,  and  turned  him  off  (with  as  little 
or  less  ceremony  than  you  would  use  in  discharging  the  afore- 
said worthy  personage)  for  a  very  masterly  critique  on  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence,  whom  Mr.  Perry,  as  one  whom  he  visited 
and  was  being  painted  by,  chose  to  have  praised." 

From  the  Chronicle  Hazlitt  turned  to  Hunt's  paper,  the 
Examiner.  His  first  criticism  in  that  paper  appeared  in  July, 
1814.  He  wrote  a  few  articles  in  the  following  summer  and 
became  the  regular  critic  from  March  19;  18 15,  to  June  8, 
181 7.  During  the  autumn  of  18 14  Hazlitt  was  regularly  em- 
ployed by  the  Champion,  a  weekly  edited  by  John  Scott.  This 
engagement  lasted  from  August  14,  1814,  to  January  8,  18 15. 
From  the  summer  of  18 17  to  the  spring  of  18 18  he  wrote  for 
the  Times  articles  on  Shakspere's  plays  and  other  well-known 
plays. ^  His  high  regard  for  the  Times  was  afterwards  expressed 
in  his  advice  for  "  any  one  who  has  an  ambition  to  write  and 
to  write  his  best  in  the  periodical  press,  to  get,  if  he  can,  a 
position  in  the  limes  newspaper,  the  editor  of  which  is  a  man 
of  business  and  not  a  man  of  letters.  He  may  write  there  as 
long  and  as  good  articles  as  he  can  without  being  turned  out 
of  it."  ^ 

During  these  years  Hazlitt  wrote  miscellaneous  essays  for  the 
periodicals  to  which  he  was  contributing,  and  he  prepared  for 
publication  two  books,  which  consisted  largely  of  his  dramatic 
criticisms,  "Characters  of  Shakespear's  Plays"  (18 17)  and 
"View  of  the  English  Stage"  (18 18).    The  latter  volume  was 

1  "  Memoirs,"  II,  310  ;  "  Literary  Remains,"  p.  xlv. 

2  Preface  to  "  View  of  the  English  Stage,"  Works,  VIII,  174. 


xliv  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

simply  a  collection  of  articles  which  had  appeared  in  the  ChroJii- 
cle,  Champion,  Examiner,  and  the  Times.  When  the  Lofidoti 
Magazine  was  established  in  January,  1820,  under  the  editorship 
of  John  Scott,^  Hazlitt  undertook  to  write  an  article  each  month  '^ 
on  the  acted  drama  in  London.  The  second  edition  ^  of  the 
"  View  of  the  English  Stage  "  included  a  large  part  of  these 
essays,  though  many  personages  were  omitted,  and  what  re- 
mained was  sometimes  changed. 

For  his  work  as  theatrical  critic  Hazlitt  could  not  be  said  to 
have  had  special  training.  He  had  not  "  grown  up  in  the  green 
room."  When  he  was  twelve  years  of  age  he  had  seen  at 
Liverpool''  "Love  in  Many  Masks,"  and  a  farce  "No  Song,  No 
Supper,"  performed  by  Kemble,  Suett,  Dignum,  Miss  Romanzini, 
and  others.  In  1796  he  had  seen  John  Kemble  as  Coriolanus, 
he  had  come  to  know  the  actor  Liston,  but  he  had  never  been 
a  regular  playgoer.^  During  the  winter  of  1802— 1803,  while  he 
worked  in  the  Louvre,  Paris,  we  have  no  record  of  his  attend- 
ance at  any  theater.  He  may  have  seen  plays  at  Shrewsbury 
during  the  years  which  he  spent  at  home  in  Wem,  but  of  this 
we  know  nothing.  After  his  meeting  with  Lamb  the  two 
together  went  occasionally  to  the  theater,  as  we  learn  from 
Mary  Lamb's  letters.  On  the  fourth  or  sixth  of  July,  1806,  she 
wrote  to  Sarah  Stoddart :  "  They  [Charles  and  Hazlitt]  came 
home  from  Sadler's  Wells  so  dismal  and  dreary  dull  on  Friday 
evening  that  I  gave  them  both  a  good  scolding,  quite  a  setting 
to  rights,  and  I  think  it  has  done  some  good,  for  Charles  has 
been  very  cheerful  ever  since."    On  the  tenth  of  the  following 

1  See  above,  p.  xxxvi. 

2  Hazlitt  wrote  ten  articles ;  none  appeared  in  November,  and  the  article  for 
October  was  not  by  Hazlitt.  The  content  of  each  of  these  papers  was  given  in 
the  December  issue.  3  1S21. 

4  See  above,  p.  xiii ;  "Memoirs,"  p.  17.  See  also  "The  New  School  of  Re- 
form," Works,  VII,  179. 

5  Before  he  became  a  critic  of  the  stage  he  admitted  he  had  not  been  at  the 
theater  "  more  than  a  half-a-dozen  times  "  in  his  life.  See  "  Letter-Bell,"  Works, 
XII,  235. 


INTRODUCTION  xlv 

December^  they  sat  together  in  the  pit  to  see  Lamb's  farce, 
"  Mr.  H.,"  condemned  to  oblivion.  Knowing  Lamb's  fondness 
for  the  theater,  we  may  assume  that  they  went  for  an  occasional 
evening  to  see  some  favorite  actor.  After  his  marriage  and 
removal  to  the  country  he  made  only  a  rare  visit  to  London  till 
he  and  his  wife  returned  in  1811  or  1812. 

Hazlitt's  criticisms  of  the  theater-  are  a  fair  guide  to  the 
theaters,  plays,  and  players  of  his  time.  He  wrote  of  Drury 
Lane,  Covent  Garden,  Haymarket,  Lyceum,  The  King's  Thea- 
ter and  the  minor  theaters,  the  Surrey,  Adelphi,  the  Coburg,  The 
Aquatic,  The  East  London.  He  discussed  winter  and  summer 
plays,  pantomimes,  operas,  and  oratorios.  He  reviewed  not  only 
his  favorite  plays,  "  Hamlet,"  "  Macbeth,"  "  Cymbeline,"  ''  Rich- 
ard HI,"  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  "Everyman  in  his  Humour," 
"  School  for  Scandal,"  "  Beggar's  Opera,"  "  New  Way  to  pay 
Old  Debts,"  but  all  of  Shakspere's  dramas  and  a  large  number 
of  Restoration  and  eighteenth-century  plays.  He  loved  the 
Kembles,  he  discovered  Kean  for  the  London  public,  praised 
Macready,  Booth,  Bannister,  Miss  Stephens,  and  Mrs.  Siddons,^ 
and  in  all  his  criticism  he  was  fair  and,  above  all,  discriminating. 

Qualifications  for  a  capable  critic  of  the  stage  Hazlitt  certainly 
had.  He  liked  the  stage.  "  We  like  the  stage  because  we  like 
to  talk  about  ourselves."  He  liked  it  because  it  was  "  the  text 
and  school  of  humanity."  "  We  do  not  much  like  any  person 
or  persons  who  do  not  like  plays."    Furthermore,  he  read  widely 

1  See  "  On  Great  and  Little  Things,"  Works,  VI,  232. 

2  Hazlitt's  essays,  which  may  be  considered  in  general  as  dramatic  criticism,  are 
as  follows:  "On  Modern  Comedy,"  "Mr.  Kean's  lago,"  "On  'Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,'  "  "  On  the  '  Beggar's  Opera,'  "  "  On  Actors  and  Acting  "  in  Works, Vol.  1 ; 
"Characters  of  Shakespear's  Plays,"  in  Vol.  V;  "  Dramatic  Writers  Contemporary 
with  Shakspere,"  in  Vol.VI;  "On  Patronage  and  Puffing,''  "Whether  Actors  ought 
to  sit  in  Boxes,"  "On  the  Disadvantages  of  Intellectual  Superiority,"  "On  Great 
and  Little  Things";  "A  View  of  the  English  Stage,"  "Miscellaneous  Dramatic 
Essays,"  "The  English  Comic  Writers"  (Chaps.  ii,iii,iv,viii  in  Vol.  VIII). 

3  "  I  observed  that  of  all  the  women  I  had  ever  seen  or  known  anything  of, 
Mrs.  Siddons  struck  me  as  the  grandest "  ("  Conversations  of  James  Northcote," 
Works,  VI,  333). 


xlvi  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

and  wisely  in  the  drama  of  the  Elizabethan  era,  the  Restoration, 
and  the  eighteenth  century.  Again,  he  had  a  high  conception 
of  his  duty  as  critic  both  to  the  player  and  to  the  public. 
"  Though  I  do  not  repent  of  what  I  have  said  in  praise  of  cer- 
tain actors,  yet  I  wish  I  could  retract  what  I  have  been  obliged 
to  say  in  reprobation  of  actors.  ...  I  never  understood  that 
the  applauded  actor  thought  himself  personally  obliged  to  the 
newspaper  critic;  the  latter  was  merely  supposed  to  do  his 
duty."  ^  He  praised  Kean  because  he  saw  in  him  a  genius. 
This  favorable  notice  "  produced  a  great  impression  and  gave 
rise  to  the  report,  absolutely  without  foundation,  that  the  critic 
had  received  ^^1500  from  the  management  of  Drury  Lane  to 
puff  Kean."  -  Finally,  the  enthusiasm  and  eloquence  of  Hazlitt's 
style  took  hold  of  people  and  made  his  favorable  reviews  much 
sought  after  both  by  the  player  and  the  playgoer. 

That  his  theatrical  notes  make  good  reading  now  after  almost 
a  hundred  years  may  not  be  a  compliment  upon  their  value  as 
dramatic  criticism.  Indeed,  their  bookishness  has  always  been 
noted.  He  liked  above  everything  the  play  which  he  could  read. 
True  he  reveled  in  the  memories  of  the  good  past  days  at  the 
theater ;  he  was  thrilled  by  the  eloquence  of  Kemble  and  Kean, 
and  he  liked  the  crowd  of  "  happy  faces  in  the  pit,"  and  the 
atmosphere  of  the  playhouse.  He  watched  closely  the  entrances 
and  exits  of  the  actors,  their  eyes,  faces,  hands ;  listened  for  the 
cadences  of  the  spoken  sentences,  and  marked  the  differences  in 
an  actor  on  successive  evenings,  He  rarely  analyzed  the  play  as 
a  play  —  he  was  not  concerned  with  the  technique  of  the  verse  ; 
he  was  interested  in  the  series  of  fine  speeches  and  the  groups 
of  diversified  characters.  He  did  not  give  a  well-rounded  com- 
ment of  the  play,  but  a  eulogy  of  Kemble  as  Sir  Giles  Over- 
reach, Miss  O'Neill  as  Lady  Teazle,  Mrs;  Siddons  as  Lady 
Macbeth,  Macready  as  Othello,  Kean  as  lago  or  Shylock  or 

1  "  Dramatic  Essays,"  Works,  VI 1 1,  177. 
'■2  Birrell,  "  Life  of  Ilazlitt,''  p.  loy. 


INTRODUCTION  xlvii 

Richard  III.  He  thought  Shakspere  too  great  for  the  stage! 
"  Not  only  are  the  more  refined  poetical  beauties,  the  minuter 
strokes  of  character,  lost  to  the  audience,  but  the  most  striking 
and  impressive  passages,  those  which  having  once  read  we  can 
never  forget,  fail  comparatively  of  their  effect  except  in  one  or 
two  instances."  He  enjoyed  the  old  plays,  the  great  actors,  much 
as  he  liked  old  books  or  some  striking  incident  of  his  youth. 

III.  AS  CRITIC  OF  PAINTING 

In  his  relation  to  the  art  of  painting^  Hazlitt  stood  alone 
among  his  contemporaries.  From  his  birth  he  had  been  associ- 
ated with  painters  ;  he  had  studied  in  the  Louvre ;  he  had  talked 
art  with  Flaxman,  Northcote,  and  Haydon ;  he  had  read  the 
works  of  Richardson  and  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds ;  finally,  he  had 
been  a  painter.  How  well  qualified  he  was  by  nature  and  train- 
ing to  write  of  the  art  of  painting  can  best  be  seen  in  his  pages 
of  criticism.  No  one  of  his  contemporaries  was  his  equal,  either 
in  natural  aptitude  or  knowledge  of  what  the  painter  was  trying 
to  do.  Hazlitt  never  thought  out  in  his  criticisms  of  painting, 
any  more  than  he  did  in  his  criticisms  of  the  drama,  the  princi- 
ples that  underlie  the  art.  Certain  principles  he  insisted  upon, 
it  is  true,  but  they  were  not  formally  fashioned  into  a  system. 
They  were  some  of  his  feelings  about  art.  "  Art  must  be  true 
to  nature."  This  was,  first  of  all,  important.  The  lesson  to  be 
learned  from  the  Elgin  marbles^  was  "  that  the  chief  excellence 
of  the  figures  depends  on  their  having  been  copied  from  nature, 

1  The  writings  of  Hazlitt  which  deal  with  painting  especially  are  the  following  : 
In  "Table  Talk,"  "On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting,"  "On  Certain  Inconsistencies 
in  Sir  Joshua  Reynold's  Discourses,"  "On  a  Landscape  of  Nicholas  Poussin," 
"On  the  Picturesque  and  Ideal,"  Works,  Vol.  VI;  "Conversations  of  James 
Northcote,"  Works,  Vol.  VI :  in  "  Plain  Speaker,"  "  On  Sitting  for  One's  Picture," 
"On  a  Portrait  of  an  English  Lady,"  Works,  Vol.  VII;  on  the  "Works  of 
Hogarth,"  Works,  Vol.  VIII;  "The  Principal  Picture  Galleries  in  England," 
Works,  Vol.  IX  ;  "  Notes  of  a  Journey  through  France  and  Italy,"  Works,  Vol.  I X  ; 
"  Miscellaneous  Essays  on  the  Fine  Arts,"  Works,  Vol.  IX. 

2  "  On  the  Elgin  Marbles,"  Works,  IX,  326. 


xlviii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

and  not  from  imagination."  Pictures  must  have  a  meaning,  they 
must  express  something.  He  liked  to  talk  about  "  the  poetry  of 
Passion,"  "  the  learning  of  Titian."  It  is  significant  that  he 
included  Hogarth  among  the  "  comic  writers  of  the  eighteenth 
century." 

In  his  criticism  of  painting  as  of  the  drama,  he  tried  to  be 
honest  and  fair.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  defend  a  rising  young 
artist,  and  thus  gave  encouragement  to  such  men  as  Wilson, 
Haydon,  and  Turner.  Of  the  latter  he  wrote,  before  Ruskin  was 
born,  "  In  landscape  Turner  has  shown  a  knowledge  of  the 
effects  of  air  and  of  powerful  relief  in  objects  which  was  never 
surpassed."  He  turned  his  contemporaries  to  Hogarth.  He 
was  as  ready  to  point  out  a  fault  in  Claude  or  Poussin,  whom 
he  idolized,  as  he  was  to  extol  a  virtue  in  Haydon  or  Wilson. 

The  pleasure  of  it  all  was  the  thing.  It  was  to  him  inexpres- 
sible joy  to  be  able  to  see  the  masters  in  Paris  and  in  Florence, 
and  to  go  again  and  again  to  the  collection  at  Burleigh  House 
and  to  take  Lamb  to  Oxford  and  to  Blenheim.  This  went  along 
with  his  delight  in  creating  for  himself,  of  which  he  wrote  appre- 
ciatively in  his  splendid  essays,  "  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting." 
"  My  taste  in  pictures  is,  I  believe,  very  different  from  that  of 
rich  and  princely  collectors.  ...  I  should  like  to  have  a  few 
pictures  hung  round  the  room  that  speak  to  me  with  well-known 
looks,  that  touch  some  string  of  memory  —  not  a  number  of 
varnished,  smooth,  glittering  gew-gaws."  This  joy  of  associa- 
tion with  pictures  he  was  able  constantly  to  communicate  to 
others.  At  a  time  when  little  attention  was  paid  to  art  criticism, 
Hazlitt  "  claimed  for  it  the  dignity  of  a  branch  of  literature  and 
expended  on  it  the  wealth  of  his  ever-fervid  and  impassioned 
imagination."  ^ 

In  estimating  Hazlitt  as  a  critic  of  painting  we  should  re- 
member the  changes  which  have  occurred  in  the  vocabulary  of 

1  Gosse's  preface  to  his  ediUon  of  "Conversations  of  James  Northcote," 
p.  xxvii. 


INTRODUCTION  xlix 

art  criticism,  as  well  as  the  priority  of  Hazlitt's  work  and  his 
recognition  of  the  fact  that  few  of  his  readers  would  ever  see 
the  pictures  which  he  described.  Hazlitt  helped  people  to  enjoy 
pictures,  and  to  enjoy  the  picturesque  in  the  world  about.  "  I 
am  a  slave  to  the  picturesque,"  he  wrote  once.  He  saw  about 
him  the  charm  of  line  and  color,  and  could  describe  with  power- 
ful vividness  any  face  which  had  impressed  him. 


IV.  AS  CRITIC  OF  BOOKS  AND  MEN 

In  a  most  interesting  essay  on  Hazlitt,  Professor  Saintsbury^ 
has  written :  "  He  was  in  literature  a  great  man.  I  am  myself 
disposed  to  think  that  for  all  his  excess  of  hopelessly  uncritical 
prejudice  he  was  the  greatest  critic  that  England  has  yet  pro- 
duced." Whether  we  agree  wholly  with  this  estimate  we  must 
admit  him  into  the  select  group  of  three  or  four  best  English 
critics.  The  range  of  his  criticism  of  books  is  practically  the 
whole  of  English  literature."  With  interest  and  appreciation  he 
has  touched  every  period,  with  boundless  enthusiasm  and  dis- 
crimination he  has  described  especially  the  drama  of  the  Resto- 
ration and  the  periodical  essayists  and  novelists  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  He  admired  the  great  writers,  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Shak- 
spere,  and  Milton,  and  wrote  of  them  with  hearty  appreciation. 
Most  certainly  he  was  not  radical  or  revolutionary  in  his  literary 
heroes,  and  yet  he  did  not  hesitate  to  speak  out  openly  when  he 
saw  merit.  For  the  writers  of  the  Queen  Anne  period  he  had 
especial  praise.  He  appreciated  with  rare  intelligence  their 
forceful  prose,  and  considered  the  style  of  Swift  and  Arbuthnot 
as  well-nigh  model  prose.    Indeed,  his  remarks  on  these  writings 

1  G.  E.  Saintsbury,  "  Essays  on  English  Literature." 

2  Hazlitt's  criticism  of  literature  is  comprised  chiefly  of  the  following: 
"Characters  of  Shakespear's  Plays"  (i8i;),  "Lectures  on  the  English  Poets" 
(1818),  "Lectures  on  the  English  Comic  Writers"  (1S19),  "Lectures  on  the 
Dramatic  Literature  of  the  Reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth"  (1S20),  "The  Spirit  of 
the  Age"  (1825). 


1  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

might  very  well  serve  as  a  manual  for  clear  and  effective  com- 
position. He  preferred  Steele  to  Addison,  Thomson  to  Cowper, 
Gay  to  Prior.  He  saw  Pope's  excellence  without  requiring  him 
to  conform  to  the  standards  fixed  for  poetry  at  any  one  time. 
He  liked  Blair's  "  Grave,"  Butler's  "  Hudibras,"  Warton's  son- 
nets, Suckling's  poems.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  Congreve, 
Ossian,  Burke's  prose,  Scott's  novels,  and  the  novels  of  the  pre- 
ceding century.  His  criticism  was  largely  personal.  "  There  are 
people  who  cannot  taste  olives  —  and  I  cannot  much  relish  Ben 
Jonson,  though  I  have  taken  some  pains  to  do  it,  and  went  to 
the  task  with  every  sort  of  good  will."  He  was  influenced  very 
largely  by  his  private  associations  and  by  his  sympathy  for  the 
character  of  the  writer.  Nevertheless,  in  the  criticism  of  his  con- 
temporaries in  "  The  Spirit  of  the  Age  "  he  was  uncommonly 
fair,  and  few  of  his  judgments  need  to  be  revised  a  hundred 
years  afterwards.  He  did  not  appreciate  Shelley  and  Keats, 
but  wrote  most  intelligently  and  appreciatively  of  the  poetry 
of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  the  novels  of  Scott,  and  the 
prose  of  Burke,  though  he  had  harsh  things  to  say  of  them  as 
men.  Wordsworth  was  "  the  most  original  poet  now  living  "  ; 
Coleridge  was  "  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  who  answered  to  the 
idea  of  a  man  of  genius "  ;  Scott  was  "  the  greatest,  wisest, 
meanest  ...  of  mankind "  ;  Gifford  was  "  a  low-bred,  self- 
taught,  servile  pedant,  a  doorkeeper  and  a  lacquey  to  learning." 
Apparently  Hazlitt  was  trying  to  follow  the  lead  of  one  whom 
he  greatly  admired  —  "  Montaigne  may  be  said  to  have  been 
the  first  who  had  the  courage  to  say  as  an  author  what  he  felt 
as  a  man."  Allowing  for  prejudices,  however,  we  should  have 
difficulty  to  find  another  critic  who  has  shown  such  breadth  of 
interest  as  to  include  with  such  just  appreciation  so  many 
writers  so  widely  separated  in  time  and  in  achievement. 

'Jlic  contemporaries  of  Hazlitt  attempted  to  silence  him  as 
a  critic  by  pointing  to  his  lack  of  reading  and  the  repetitions 
which  recurred  so  frequently  in  his  work.   To  these  men  H;izlitt 


INTRODUCTION  li 

replied  :  "I  have  been  found  fault  with  for  repeating  myself, 
and  for  a  narrow  range  of  ideas.  To  a  want  of  general  reading  I 
plead  guilty  and  am  sorry  for  it,  but  perhaps  if  I  had  read  more 
I  might  have  thought  less."  ^  Such  a  characteristic  remark ! 
Hazlitt  did  not  wish  to  have  a  mere  literary  reputation ;  he 
despised  those  who  had  their  ideas  from  books  alone.  Never- 
theless, besides  an  extensive  reading  of  English  literature  — 
who  of  his  day  had  read  more  widely  in  the  literature  of  his 
own  language  ?  he  knew  some  of  Schiller's  plays,  Rousseau, 
Montaigne,  Le  Sage's  "Gil  Bias,"  Rabelais,  Dante,  Boccaccio, 
and  "  Don  Quixote."  .  .  .  Most  of  these  he  knew  intimately — 
a  meager  list  one  has  to  admit,  but  not  unworthy.  It  is  well  for 
us  who  live  in  the  day  when  there  are  too  many  books  and 
too  few  careful  readers  to  remember  what  we  have  just  quoted, 
"  If  I  had  read  more,  I  should  have  thought  less." 

In  his  thinking  and  his  writing  Hazlitt  had  never  hit  upon 
historical  or  philosophical  criticism.^  He  was  an  emotional  critic. 
By  his  criticism  of  Milton's  sonnets  he  expressed  his  aim  — 
"  picking  out  the  beautiful  passages  that  I  like."  ^  "  Taste  is 
ability  to  appreciate  genius  " ;  "  Fine  taste  consists  in  sympathy" ; 
"  He  who  finds  out  what  there  is  in  a  picture  rather  than  he  who 
finds  what  there  is  not "  ;  "So  that  the  ultimate  and  only  con- 
clusive proof  of  taste  is  not  indifference  but  enthusiasm  "  — 
these  are  the  keynotes  of  his  essay  "  On  Taste."  Critics  were 
to  be  the  tasters  for  the  public.  "  A  genuine  criticism  should, 
as  I  take  it,  reflect  the  colors,  the  light  and  shade,  the  soul  and 
body  of  a  work."  "In  the  criticisms  written  on  the  model  of 
the  French  school  about  a  century  ago  ...  we  are  left  quite  in 
the  dark  as  to  the  feelings  of  pleasure  or  pain  to  be  derived 
from  the  genius  of  the  performance  or  the  manner  in  which  it 
appeals  to  the  imagination  ;  we  know  to  a  nicety  how  it  squares 

1  "  Memoirs,"  II,  259. 

2  For  his  ideas  on  criticism  see  essays  "On  Taste,"  Works,  XI,  450  ff.,  and 
"  On  Criticism,"  Works,  VI,  214  ;  also  "  On  Periodical  Essayists,"  pp.  9  ff. 

3  "  On  Milton's  Sonnets,"  Works,  VI,  174. 


lii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

with  the  thread-bare  rules  of  composition,  not  in  the  least  how 
it  affects  the  principles  of  taste."  ^  "  Why  trouble  Pope  or 
any  other  author  for  what  they  have  not  and  do  not  profess 
to  give  ?  "  All  sound  and  true.  According  to  Hazlitt,  his  friend 
Joseph  Fawcett  was  an  ideal  critic.  "  He  had  a  masterly  per- 
ception of  all  styles  and  of  every  kind  and  every  degree  of 
excellence.  .  .  .  He  did  not  care  a  rush  whether  a  writer  was 
old  or  new,  in  prose  or  in  verse  — '  What  he  wanted,'  he  said, 
'  was  something  to  make  him  think.' "  "  He  gave  a  cordial 
welcome  to  all  sorts,  provided  they  were  the  best  in  their  kind." 
These  extracts  show  with  sufficient  clearness  that  Hazlitt  aimed 
at  no  analytical  method  in  his  criticism.  He  does  not  belong 
to  the  modern  school  of  metaphysical  critics  who  "  suppose  the 
question  Why  ?  to  be  repeated  at  the  end  of  every  decision ; 
and  the  answer  gives  birth  to  interminable  arguments  and  dis- 
cussion." Nor  is  there  in  Hazlitt  insistence  upon  the  historical 
estimates.  He  is  content  with  good  work  well  done.  "  If  a 
man  leaves  behind  him  any  work  which  is  a  model  of  its  kind, 
we  have  no  right  to  ask  whether  he  could  do  anything  else  or 
how  he  did  it,  or  how  long  he  was  about  it." " 

Hazlitt  contributed  little  to  the  group  of  critical  principles 
which  from  time  to  time  in  the  last  hundred  years  have  been 
enunciated  with  greater  or  less  clearness.  Of  poetry  he  wrote, 
"  Many  people  suppose  that  poetrv'  is  something  to  be  found 
only  in  books,  contained  in  lines  of  ten  syllables,  with  like  end- 
ings, but  wherever  there  is  a  sense  of  beauty,  or  power,  or  har- 
mony, as  in  the  motion  of  a  wave  of  the  sea,  in  the  growth  of 
a  flower  that  spreads  its  sweet  leaves  through  the  air,  and  dedi- 
cates its  beauty  to  the  sun,  there  is  poetry.  .  .  .  Poetry  is  not 
a  branch  of  authorship ;  it  is  the  stuff  of  which  our  life  is 
made."  ^  This  was  a  long  step  beyond  the  critics  of  the  preced- 
ing century,  such  as  Johnson,  or  even  Addison,  who  would  not 

1  ■'  On  Criticism,"  Works,  VI,  217. 

2  "  On  Genius  and  Common  Sense,"  Works,  VI,  31.  3  See  p.  35. 


INTRODUCTION  liii 

listen  to  a  definition  of  poetry  which  did  not  hedge  it  within 
fixed  rules  and  requirements.  The  first  expression  of  modern 
critical  principles  was  the  publication  of  the  Prefaces  by  Words- 
worth, in  which  he  discussed  the  relation  of  Imagination  and 
Fancy.  This  discussion,  which  had  come  from  Lessing,  Richter, 
and  A.  W.  Schlegel,  did  not  interest  Hazlitt.  Richter  distin- 
guished Imagination  as  the  faculty  of  genius  which  constructs 
organic  wholes,  from  Fancy  which  forms  arbitrary  aggregates. 
The  union  of  opposites  became  the  fundamental  formula  of 
romantic  art.  Hence  there  was  no  inconsistency  in  the  combina- 
tion of  tragedy  and  comedy,  of  humor  and  pathos,  in  a  single 
play.  With  this  conception  Hazlitt  was  in  perfect  accord. 
"  Poetry  is  the  stuff  of  which  our  life  is  made."  Coleridge,  how- 
ever, went  farther.  He  recognized  the  need  of  order  and  rules 
—  "Poetry  must  embody,  in  order  to  reveal  itself,"  and  unlike 
the  eighteenth-century  revisers  of  Shakspere  who  wished  to 
leave  out  or  smooth  over  the  irregularities  of  the  Elizabethan 
dramatists,  Coleridge  looked  for  the  reason  of  the  so-called 
irregularities,  and  he  wished  not  to  make  Shakspere  over  but 
to  find  and  to  understand  the  evidences  of  organic  structure. 
Coleridge  passed  the  torch  on  to  Carlyle,  who  not  only  searched 
for  the  central  and  vivifying  purpose  with  proper  historical  per- 
spective, but  he  wished  to  emphasize  the  dynamic  quality  of  the 
work  and  make  it  exercise  its  influence  on  the  thought  and  lives 
of  men.  In  his  essay  on  Goethe  he  w-rote,  "  To  determine ' 
with  any  infallibility  whether  wiiat  w^e  call  a  fault  is  in  very  deed  j 
a  fault,  w-e  must  have  settled  two  points,  first  what  the  poet's  ' 
aim  really  was,  and  how  far  this  aim  accorded,  not  with  us  and 
our  individual  crotchets,  but  with  human  nature,  and  the  nature 
of  things  at  large ;  with  the  principles  of  poetic  beauty,  asl 
they  stand  written,  not  in  our  text-books  but  in  the  hearts  and 
imaginations  of  all  men." 

Such  as  it  was  —  and  a  very  good  kind,  if  not  the  best  — 
the  criticism  of  Hazlitt  performed  a  great  service.    He  interested 


liv  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

people  in  fields  hitherto  almost  untrodden  ;  he  taught  his  readers 
that  they  had  within  themselves  powers  of  appreciation  of  which 
they  had  not  dreamed ;  he  gave  new  encouragement  to  the 
author  who  saw  for  the  first  time  the  possibility  of  a  large  and 
sympathetic  reading  public  ;  and  finally  he  sharpened  the  critical 
faculties  of  his  readers  and  introduced  a  new  enthusiasm  into 
reading  and  talking  about  books.  His  judgments  have  formed 
a  remarkably  large  amount  of  the  present  estimate  of  much  of 
English  literature.  Indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  name  an  English 
critic  who  has  succeeded  in  this  particular  to  an  equal  degree. 
Of  him  Harriet  Martineau  wrote,  "  In  Hazlitt  we  lost  the  Prince 
of  Critics  of  his  time,  and  after  he  was  gone  there  were  many 
who  would  never  look  at  a  picture,  or  see  a  tragedy,  or  ponder 
a  point  of  morals,  or  take  a  survey  of  any  public  character  with- 
out a  melancholy  sense  of  loss  in  Hazlitt's  absence  and  silence."  ^ 
There  could  be  no  more  fitting  conclusion  to  our  discussion  of 
Hazlitt  as  a  critic  than  the  words  of  Thackeray."-^  "  Hazlitt  was 
one  of  the  keenest  and  brightest  critics  that  ever  lived.  With 
partialities  and  prejudices  innumerable,  he  had  a  wit  so  keen, 
a  sensibility  so  exquisite,  an  appreciation  of  humor  or  pathos  or 
even  of  the  greatest  act  so  lively,  quick,  and  cultivated,  that  it 
was  always  good  to  know  what  were  the  impressions  made  by 
books  or  men  or  pictures  on  such  a  mind ;  and  that,  as  there 
were  not  probably  a  dozen  men  in  England  with  powers  so 
varied,  all  the  rest  of  the  world  might  be  rejoiced  to  listen  to 
the  opinions  of  this  accomplished  critic." 

V.  AS  PERSONAL  ESSAYIST 

To  many  readers  Hazlitt  is  most  interesting  as  a  writer  of 
miscellaneous  essays  and  more  especially  as  the  personal  and 
autobiographical  essayist.    The  mention  of  a  half  dozen  of  his 

1  Harriet  Martineau,  '•  History  of  England  during  the  J'hirty  \'ears"  Peace," 
Book  IV,  chap.  xiv. 

^  A  review  of  the  "  Spirit  of  the  Age  "  in  the  Morning  Chronicle,  1845. 


INTRODUCTION  Iv 

titles  calls  up  some  of  our  happiest  memories  of  books  —  "  My 
First  Acquainlance  with  Poets,"  "  On  Going  •  a  Journey," 
"A  Farewell  to  Essay-Writing,"  "  The  Feeling  of  Immortality 
in  Youth,"  "  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting,"  "  On  Reading  Old 
Books,"  or  "  Of  Persons  One  would  Wish  to  have  Seen."  It 
is  doubtless  of  such  as  these  that  Stevenson  was  thinking  when 
he  said,  "  We  are  all  mighty  fine  fellows,  but  we  cannot  write 
like  Hazlitt."  ' 

Again  there  are  those  suggested  by  a  philosophical  or  ethical 
theme,  "  On  Thought  and  Action,"  "  Why  Distant  Objects 
Please,"  "  On  the  Knowledge  of  Character,"  "  On  the  Fear  of 
Death,"  "  On  the  Past  and  Future,"  "  On  Living  to  One's-Self," 
"  On  Effeminacy  of  Character,"  "  On  Conduct  of  Life,"  "  The 
Spirit  of  Obligation,"  "  On  Antiquity,"  "  On  Great  and  Little 
Things,"  "  On  Personal  Identity,"  "  Self-Love  and  Benevolence," 
"  Main  Chance,"  "  On  a  Sun-Dial,"  "  On  the  Feeling  of  Immor- 
tality ";  then  an  occasional  paper  on  the  foibles  or  peculiarities  of 
people,  "  Ignorance  of  the  Learned,"  "  On  People  with  One 
Idea,"  "  On  the  Pleasures  of  Hating,"  "  On  Vulgarity  and 
Affectation,"  "  On  the  Disadvantages  of  Intellectual  Superiority," 
"  On  Consistency  of  Opinion,"  "  On  Disagreeable  People," 
"  Londoners  and  Country  People,"  "  On  Editors,"  and  "  On  the 
Shyness  of  Scholars";  a  few  that  are  entertaining  for  views 
on  writing  and  criticism,  ''On  Taste,"  "On  Criticism,"  "On 
Familiar  Style,"  "  On  the  Aristocracy  of  Letters,"  "  The  Pic- 
turesque and  the  Ideal,"  "  On  the  Judging  of  Pictures,"  "  On 
Application  to  Study  " ;  a  group,  perhaps  the  most  delightful, 
which  abound  in  intimate  personal  reminiscences,  "  My  First 
Acquaintance  with  Poets,"  "  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors," 
"Of  Persons  One  would  Wish  to  have  Seen,"  "On  the  Pleasure 


1  A  few  of  Stevenson's  titles  suggest  a  closer  bond  of  sympathy  between  the 
two  sentimentalists  than  we  usually  suspect ;  for  example,  "  On  Walking  Tours,'" 
"Talks  and  Talkers,"  "Crabbed  Age  and  Youth,"  "An  Apology  for  Idlers," 
"Truth  of  Intercourse,"  "On  the  Enjoyment  of  Unpleasant  Places." 


Ivi  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

of  Painting,"  "  The  Free  Admission,"  "  Sitting  for  One's  Pic- 
ture," "  The  Sick  Chamber,"  "  The  Letter  Bell,"  "  The  Fight." 
These  last  essays  are  Hazlitt  at  his  best.  They  form  his  criticism 
of  life  and  of  life  at  its  fullest  —  not  morbid,  cynical,  or  pessi- 
mistic. Unlike  Swift,  he  liked  man,  and  took  a  pleasure  in  ridi- 
culing the  everyday  foibles  of  men.  He  was  most  fond  of  quoting 
the  splendid  line  from  Shakspere,  "  Our  life  is  of  mingled  yarn, 
good  and  ill  together."  What  he  liked  were  the  things  of  good 
report.  If  he  was  bitter  toward  the  world,  these  essays  do  not 
show  his  bitterness  ;  if  he  hated  men,  it  was  because  of  supposed 
injustice,  deception,  hypocrisy,  or  oppression.  His  essays  express 
vividly  the  philosophy  of  the  everyday  life,  hinting  now  and  then 
at  the  mystery  which  stands  just  at  our  elbows,  detecting  the 
peccadillos  that  beset  mankind,  analyzing  with  clever  observation 
the  motives  of  the  commonplace,  and  adorning  the  apparently 
trivial  with  poetic  imagination. 

As  a  critic  of  men,  we  think  of  Hazlitt  along  with  Swift  and 
Thackeray.  He  was  not  so  great  as  either  in  the  depth  of  insight 
or  the  vigor  of  expression,  but,  like  them,  he  was  never  insipid 
and  as  deeply  hated  sham  and  snobbery.  The  summary  of  Pro- 
fessor Winchester  is  so  admirable  that  we  quote  a  long  passage : 
"  We  see  in  his  essays  an  intellect  disciplined  and  broadened  by 
long  thought,  enriched  by  the  best  reading  and  by  early  and  in- 
timate acquaintance  with  two  or  three  of  the  ablest  men  of  that 
generation ;  a  vivid  imagination  and  a  quick  eye  for  beauty ;  a 
temper  flashing  into  anger  at  opposition  or  softened  to  melancholy 
by  failure,  yet  constant  to  the  ideals  of  youth  ;  a  vein  of  perver- 
sity which  always  liked  the  back  side  of  a  truth  and  the  under- 
side of  a  quarrel,  and  a  gift  of  phrase  ranging  from  caustic 
epigram  to  lofty  eloquence.  And  in  his  egotism  there  is  no 
Byronic  posing  nor  any  braggart  quality ;  it  is  frank,  naive, 
almost  unconscious."  ^ 

1  C.  T.  Winchester,  "  A  Group  of  English  Essayists,"  p.  67. 


INTRODUCTION  Ivii 


VI.  HAZLITT'S  STYLE 


As  a  bit  of  advice  to  writers  Stevenson  once  said,  "  I  should 
like  them  to  read  Hazlitt,  there  's  a  lot  of  style  in  Hazlitt."  ^  One 
of  the  first  impressions  of  his  writing  is  his  ease.  He  does  not 
hesitate  for  a  word.  His  friends  often  spoke  of  his  preparedness, 
as  he  seemed  to  them  always  to  have  thought  out  beforehand 
just  what  he  wished  to  say.  Once  the  keynote  was  struck,  he 
went  straight  to  the  point.  What  labor  it  implied  to  have 
acquired  this  habit  he  once  described :  "  Oh,  how  little  do  they 
know  who  have  never  done  anything  but  repeat  after  others  by 
rote,  the  labor,  the  yearnings  and  misgivings  of  mind  it  costs  to 
get  the  germ  of  an  original  idea,  to  dig  it  out  of  the  hidden 
recesses  of  thought  and  nature  and  to  bring  it  half-ashamed, 
struggling,  and  deformed  into  the  day  —  to  give  words  and  intel- 
ligible symbols  to  that  which  was  never  imagined  or  expressed 
before."  At  first  this  ease  and  facility  were  slow  in  coming.  As 
a  boy  he  despaired  of  ever  having  the  ability  to  speak  and  to 
write  easily  and  effectively.^  His  reading  of  Burke's  "  Letter  to 
a  Noble  Lord  "  first  revealed  to  him  the  power  of  expression. 
From  that  day  it  throve,  but  beset  with  great  difficulty  and  dis- 
couragement. Thenceforth  it  grew  and  became  the  source  of 
envy  to  his  contemporaries.^  He  described  this  growing  power : 
"  When  I  first  began  to  write  for  the  newspapers,  I  had  not  till 
then  been  in  the  habit  of  writing  at  all,  or  had  been  a  long  time 
about  it ;  but  I  perceived  that  with  the  necessity,  the  fluency 
came.  Something  I  did  took,  and  1  was  called  upon  to  do  a 
number  of  things  all  at  once.  I  was  in  the  middle  of  the  stream, 
and  must  sink  or  swim."^    He  wrote  well  of  countless  subjects. 

1  J.  A.  Hammerton,  "  Stevensoniana,"  1903,  pp.  182-184. 

2  See  above,  p.  xviii. 

8  "Application  to  Study,"  Works,  VII;    ''Indian   Jugglers,"  "On   Familiar 
Style,"  "On  Genius  and   Common   Sense,"    "On  the    Pleasure  of  Painting,"^ 
Works,  VI;  "Writing  and  Speaking,"  Works,  VI. 

■J  "  Northcote's  Conversations,"  Works,  VI,  253. 


Iviii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

Now  there  were  "  purple  patches,"  again  his  style  became  chaste 
and  reserved,  beautiful  and  picturesque,  always  interesting.  He 
wrote  of  what  he  liked  and  in  the  way  he  liked,  and  so  with 
enthusiasm,  but  never  with  insipidity.  Perhaps  he  was  illogical 
and  prejudiced,  but  he  was  never  willfully  untruthful  or  dishonest. 
He  always  treated  his  reader  fairly  and  never  deigned  to  resort 
to  tricks  or  sophistry.  He  abhorred  the  sham  in  diction.  "  I 
hate  anything  that  occupies  more  space  than  it  is  worthy.  I  hate 
to  see  a  load  of  bandboxes  go  along  the  street,  and  I  hate  to  see 
a  parcel  of  big  words  without  anything  in  them."  No  one  was 
a  greater  stickler  for  pure  speech.  "  I  do  not  say  I  would  not 
use  any  phrase  that  had  been  brought  into  fashion  before  the 
middle  or  end  of  the  last  century,  but  I  should  be  shy  of  using 
any  that  had  not  been  employed  by  any  approved  author  during 
the  whole  of  that  period."  ^  Unlike  Carlyle  he  coined  no  German- 
English  hybrids ;  unlike  De  Quincey,  he  refused  to  be  tempted 
by  slang,  and  no  one  would  deny  to  his  diction  either  clearness 
or  simplicity  on  the  one  hand,  or  beauty  and  picturesqueness  on 
the  other.  Where  is  the  writer  of  English  who  can  better  show 
how  the  pure  English  word  can  be  welded  into  an  effective  tool } 
Hazlitt  was  fond  of  the  apt  phrase,  and  once  it  was  conceived 
he  used  it  again  and  again,  but  not  with  the  pedantic  effect  which 
often  characterized  Arnold  at  his  best.  Because  it  pleased  him, 
Hazlitt  was  content.  He  adorned  his  style  with  striking  figures, 
but  seldom  used  a  more  formal  figure  than  the  simile,  metaphor, 
or  contrast.  The  majestic  apostrophe  of  De  Quincey,  or  the 
elaborate  personification  of  Carlyle,  would  ill  have  become  the 
informal,  personal  style  of  Hazlitt.  His  was  the  master  hand  in 
the  skill  of  compressing  into  a  single  phrase  the  character  of  a 
man  or  a  work  of  literature.  "  Mrs.  Montague's  conversation  is 
as  fine  cut  as  her  features,  and  I  like  to  sit  in  the  room  with  that 
sort  of  coronet  face.  What  she  says  leaves  a  flavour  like  green 
.tea.   Hunt's  is  like  champagne  and  Northcote's  like  anchovy 

1  "On  Familiar  Style,"  p.  159. 


INTRODUCTION  lix 

sandwiches,  Haydon's  is  like  a  game  of  trapball,  Lamb's  like 
snapdragon,  and  my  own  is  not  very  much  unlike  a  game  of 
ninepins."  His  pages  sparkle  with  a  thousand  things  that  we 
should  like  to  have  thought  of.  He  admired  La  Rochefoucauld 
and  wrote  a  number  of  excellent  maxims.  To  systematic  think- 
ing he  was  not  well  suited.  The  phrase  and  sentence  rather 
than  the  paragraph  were  his  norm. 

He  had  a  wealth  of  illustration  in  the  form  of  allusion  to 
scores  of  favorite  books  or  plays,  to  oft-remembered  incidents 
of  his  early  life,  or  timely  anecdotes  which  he  recalled.  They 
were  not  whimsical  like  Lamb's,  or  colloquial  like  Hunt's,  or 
suggestive  of  mystery  like  De  Quincey's,  but  he  never  allowed 
an  allusion  to  draw  the  reader  from  the  theme  in  hand.  His 
habit  of  repeated  quotation  has  caused  irritation  to  many  a 
reader,  who  felt  it  a  sacrilege  to  dissociate  a  line  of  Shakspere 
from  its  lofty  context,  but  he  sought  justification  in  the  manner 
in  which  he  made  the  quotation  convey  his  own  idea. 

One  characteristic  marks  his  style  more  than  another ;  it  was 
his  use  of  the  parallel  construction.  He  liked  to  join  his  subjects 
in  pairs ;  for  example,  cant  and  hypocrisy,  past  and  future,  wit 
and  humor,  thought  and  action,  genius  and  common  sense, 
patronage  and  puffing,  writing  and  speaking,  and  so  on  ad  in- 
finitiim.  So  his  favorite  manner  of  elucidating  his  theme  was 
by  contrast ;  for  example,  Wilkie  and  Hogarth,  Shakspere  and 
Jonson,  Chaucer  and  Spenser,  Voltaire  and  Swift,  Thomson 
and  Cowper,  Addison  and  Steele,  Gray  and  Collins,  Dryden  and 
Pope.  In  this  he  had  great  influence  on  Macaulay,  the  master 
of  contrast.  He  also  has  had  a  subtle  influence  upon  modern 
criticism,  which  has  often  used  this  means  of  defining  the 
relative  importance  of  English  writers.  Thus  the  style  of  Hazlitt 
matured  into  a  medium  which  has  not  been  surpassed  for 
clearness  since  the  days  of  Swift,  and  for  eloquence  has  been 
rarely  equaled  since  the  days  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne  and 
Jeremy  Taylor. 


Ix  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

The  model  of  Hazlitt's  style  was  Burke,  the  herald  of  nine- 
teenth-century prose.  The  fervor  of  Burke  was  transferred  in 
Hazlitt  into  personal  enthusiasm ;  the  clear,  intellectual  prose 
of  the  best  eighteenth-century  writers  developed  in  Hazlitt  a 
style  simple,  pointed,  and  epigrammatic.  Since  Swift,  Burke's 
was  the  best  prose  style,  Hazlitt's  the  best  essay  style.  The 
possibilities  of  prose  Burke  never  foresaw  —  the  wit  of  Sydney 
Smith,  the  elegance  of  De  Quincey,  the  whimsicality  of  Lamb, 
the  spiritual  vigor  of  Carlyle,  the  splendid,  architectural,  sym- 
metiy  of  Macaulay. 

In  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  Macaulay  was 
directly  indebted  to  Hazlitt.  Between  these  two  men  there  is  a 
kinship  which  the  casual  reader  may  not  at  first  distinguish.  In 
both  we  observe  the  prominence  of  the  parallel  construction  — 
the  same  tendency  toward  epigrammatic  expression,  the  same 
underlying  determination  to  write  with  unmistakable  clearness. 
In  the  second  half  of  the  century  Newman's  writing  bore  ample 
testimony  to  the  romantic  mood  of  which  it  was  so  evident 
Hazlitt  was  a  contemporaiy  exponent.  However,  if  to  any  one 
the  mantle  of  the  prophet  was  handed  down,  it  was  to  Stevenson. 
In  spirit  they  were  alike,  —  in  enthusiasm,  in  the  joy  of  writing 
and  the  joy  of  living, —  and  Stevenson  was  ever  ready  to  ac- 
knowledge his  allegiance  to  the  master  sentimentalist.  Among 
recent  critics  Hazlitt  has  found  a  goodly  band  of  admirers  — 
Thackeray,  Leslie  Stephen,  Stevenson,  Walter  Bagehot,  Profes- 
sor Saintsbury,  Mr.  Birrell,  and  Professor  Winchester. 


VII.    THE  MAN  HAZLITT 

Hazlitt's  writings  were  a  distinct  reflection  of  his  opinions, 
prejudices,  and  memories.  Lie  liked  to  think  and  write  about 
^'  abstract  propositions  "  which,  as  he  once  said,  "  were  the  last 
thing  he  would  give  up."  As  a  boy  at  Hackney  he  tried  to 
define  his  conception  of  ethics  and  jjolitics.     He  wrote  of  time, 


INTRODUCTION  Ixi 

birth,  immortality,  but  he  could  not  give  them  that  element  of 
mystery  which  made  the  work  of  De  Quincey  of  such  rhetorical 
elegance.  He  did  not  possess  Carlyle's  power  of  giving  to  them 
the  spiritual  import  which  he  derived  from  a  greater  insight  in- 
to the  forces  of  history  and  life.  To  Hazlitt  everything  became 
personal  and  reminiscent.  He  brought  everything  down  to  that ; 
time  was  mysterious  because  the  past  had  so  many  delightful 
memories  ;  death  was  not  to  be  feared  because  he  knew  nothing 
of  what  we  were  before  we  were  born,  therefore  what  should  he 
fear  of  the  future.  Every  phase  of  ethics  and  politics  in  Hazlitt's 
mind  was  personified  by  some  one  whom  he  admired  or  hated. 
To  his  contemporaries  Hazlitt  was  a  man  of  bad  temper. 
Even  Lamb,  in  his  note  of  congratulation  ^  on  the  birth  of  the 
young  William  Hazlitt,  hoped  that  the  new  child  would  have  a 
better  temper  than  his  father.  He  had  pleasure  in  hating,  and 
with  gusto  wrote  an  essay  on  the  subject.  He  hated  all  kinds 
of  cant  and  hypocrisy,^  not  because  he  was  driven  by  a  moral 
conviction  like  Carlyle,  but  rather  because  he  was  led  by  feelings 
which  gave  him  pleasure.  His  attitude  toward  a  writer  or  poli- 
tician was  not  modified  by  the  fact  that  the  man  was  living  and 
much  admired.  Above  everything  he  loved  freedom  and  truth, 
and  stood  up  for  them.  "  Mental  courage  is  the  only  courage  I 
pretend  to.  .  .  .  In  little  else  I  have  the  spirit  of  martyrdom, 
but  I  would  rather  give  up  anything  rather  than  an  abstract 
proposition."  "  If  any  one  wishes  to  see  me  quite  calm,  they 
may  cheat  me  in  a  bargain  or  tread  upon  my  toes,  but  a  truth 
repelled  or  a  sophism  repeated  totally  disconcerts  me,  and  I  lose 
all  patience.  I  am  not,  in  the  ordinary  acceptance  of  the  term, 
a  good-natured  man  ;  that  is,  many  things  annoy  me  besides 
what  interferes  with  my  own  ease  and  interest.  I  hate  a  lie ;  a 
piece  of  injustice  wounds  me  to  the  quick,  though  nothing  but 

1  See  above,  p.  xxv. 

2  "On  Cant  and  Hypocrisy,"  "On  Depth  and  Superficiality,"  "Ignorance 
of  the  Learned,"  etc. 


Ixii  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

the  report  of  it  reaches  me.  Therefore  I  have  made  many  ene- 
mies and  few  friends."  ^  And  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  never 
concealed  anything.  The  virulent  Gifford  or  the  sneering  Black- 
wood reviewer  were  possessed  of  all  the  facts,  and  nothing  has 
been  revealed  since  that  time  to  make  him  the  less  esteemed. 
In  the  drama,  in  painting,  in  literature,  he  defended  rising  men, 
or  those  for  whom  he  had  a  sincere  regard,  and  it  is  surprising 
that  most  of  his  judgments  are  to-day  part  and  parcel  of  our 
accepted  criticism.  Born  of  dissenting  parents,  he  carried  on 
the  torch  of  liberalism  in  thinking.  He  allied  himself  with  no 
church,  occupied  himself  little  with  religious  questions,  hated 
the  Whigs  ^  because  they  had  not  the  courage  of  their  convic- 
tions, and  the  Tories  because  they^  were  the  foes  of  popular 
liberty.  He  hated  all  royalty,^  and  had  little  faith  in  the  people.* 
"  The  public  have  neither  shame  nor  gratitude."  '^  By  tempera- 
ment he  was  shy  and  awkward,  and  felt  great  embarrassment 
in  the  presence  of  women.®  He  always  felt  that  people  were 
staring  at  him  or  saying  disagreeable  things  about  him.  To  one 
of  Northcote's  remarks  he  says :  "  What  you  have  stated  is  the 
best  excuse  I  could  make  for  my  own  faults  or  blunders.  When 
one  is  found  fault  with  for  nothing,  or  for  doing  one's  best,  one 
is  apt  to  give  the  world  their  revenge.  All  the  former  part  of 
my  life  I  was  treated  as  a  cipher,  and  since  I  have  got  into 
notice  I  have  been  set  upon  as  a  wild  beast.  When  this  is  the 
case,  and  you  can  expect  as  little  justice  as  candor,  you  natu- 
rally in  self-defense  take  refuge  in  a  sort  of  misanthropy  and 
cynical  contempt  for  mankind.  One  is  disposed  to  humour  them 

1  "On  Depth  and  Superficiality,"  Works,  VII,  347. 

2  "  Political  Essays,"  Works,  III,  preface,  pp.  31  f. 
8  "  On  Great  and  Little  Things,"  Works,  VI,  276. 

4  "  On  Living  to  One's-Self."  "  Hazlitt,  who  boldly  says  all  he  feels,  avows 
that  not  only  he  does  not  pity  sick  people  but  he  hates  them."  See  Lamb's  letter 
to  B.  Barton,  April,  1824. 

»  "  Characteristics,"  II,  No.  LXXXV,  p.  369. 

6  Lamb's  letter  to  Wordsworth,  June  6,  1806  ;  references  in  Crabb  Robin- 
son's Diary. 


INTRODUCTION  Ixiii 

and  to  furnish  them  with  some  ground  for  their  idle  and  malev- 
olent censures."  ^ 

There  is  nothing  very  admirable  in  Hazlitt's  relation  to  his 
friends.  Ill  humor  may  be  made  the  e.xcuse  of  many  of  his 
acts,  but  it  is  difficult  for  us  to  excuse  his  harsh  treatment  of 
Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  and  even  Lamb,  who  fortunately  under- 
stood him  better  and,  thanks  to  the  nobility  of  his  character  and 
his  capacity  for  friendship,  appreciated  the  sterling  worth  of  the 
man  and  never  forsook  him.^  Hazlitt,  after  a  congenial  acquaint- 
ance had  been  made,  imagined  an  offense  or  looked  upon  his 
friend  as  the  exponent  of  some  narrow  prejudice,  and  then  drew 
apart.  With  something  of  brutal  frankness  he  once  wrote :  "  I 
have  quarreled  with  almost  all  my  old  friends.  Most  of  the 
friends  I  have  seen  have  turned  out  the  bitterest  enemies,  or 
cold,  uncomfortable  acquaintances.  Old  companions  are  like 
meats  served  up  too  often,  that  lose  their  relish  and  wholesome- 
ness."  ^  With  almost  all  the  men  worth  knowing  in  London 
during  the  years  1805-18 lo  Hazlitt  had  been  on  terms  of  in- 
timacy, but  no  one  except  Charles  Lamb  remained  to  him  in 
his  later  years. 

Yet  despite  all  this  prejudice  and  passionate  ill  humor,  the 
man  had  his  fine  side.  What  he  liked  he  liked  with  joyful  enthu- 
siasm. The  most  delightful  passages  in  his  books  are  those  in 
which  he  records  the  first  time  that  he  read  a  book  or  saw  a  pic- 
ture or  a  great  actor.  He  thrilled  with  joy  in  recalling  his  first 
reading  of  Rousseau's  "  New  Heloise,"  of  "  Paul  and  Virginia  " 
at  an  inn  in  Bridgewater  or  in  Tewksbury,  "  Tom  Jones,"  Burke's 
"  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord,"  "'  Gil  Bias,"  "  Don  Quixote,"  and  a 
dozen  more  of  his  favorites.  He  never  forgot  his  first  nights  at 
the  theater,  when  he  was  enraptured  by  Kean,  Kemble,  or  Mrs. 
Siddons.    These  red-letter  days  made  him  happy.    On  the  day 

1  "Northcote's  Conversations,"  Works,  VI,  270. 

2  «  Spirit  of  Obligations,"  Works,  VI  I,  78  ff. 
8  "  On  Living  to  One's-Self,"  p.  134- 


Ixiv  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

which  brought  news  of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz,  he  wrote,  "  I 
walked  out  in  the  afternoon,  and  as  I  returned  saw  the  evening 
star  set  over  a  poor  man's  cottage  with  other  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings than  I  shall  ever  have  again."  ^  On  another  day  :  "  I  remem- 
ber being  once  drawn  by  a  shower  of  rain  for  shelter  into  a 
picture  dealer's  shop  in  Oxford  Street,  where  there  stood  on  the 
floor  a  copy  of  Gainsborough's  Shepherd  Boy  with  a  thunder- 
storm coming  on.  What  a  truth  and  beauty  was  there !  He 
stands  with  his  hands  clasped,  looking  up  with  a  mixture  of 
timidity  and  resignation,  eying  a  magpie  chattering  over  his  head, 
while  the  wind  is  rustling  in  the  branches.  It  was  like  a  vision 
breathed  on  the  canvas.  I  have  been  fond  of  Gainsborough  ever 
since."  ^  The  description  of  his  first  meeting  with  Coleridge  and 
Wordsworth,  Professor  Winchester  has  called  "  the  most  delight- 
ful essay  of  personal  reminiscence  in  the  English  language." 
Like  Lamb  he  loved  the  past.^  Like  him,  too,  he  loved  old  books 
and  old  scenes.  "  For  myself  I  should  like  to  browse  on  folios 
and  have  to  do  chiefly  with  authors  that  I  have  scarcely  strength 
to  lift,  that  are  as  solid  as  they  are  heavy,  and  if  dull  are  full  of 
matter."*  He  liked  to  write  for  the  sake  of  writing,  he  liked 
painting,  he  liked  good  talk ;  among  the  actors,  poets,  and 
painters  he  liked  the  best.  His  enjoyment  of  walking  has  found 
well-nigh  perfect  expression  in  one  of  his  most  delightful  essays. 
These  are  his  pleasures,  and  where  could  there  be  better  ? 
"  There  are  only  three  pleasures  in  life,"  he  writes,  "  pure  and 
lasting  and  all  derived  from  inanimate  things — books,  pictures, 
and  the  face  of  nature."  ^  "  Food,  warmth,  sleep,  and  a  book; 
these  are  all  I  at  present  ask  —  the  ultima  Thule  of  my  wander- 
ing desires." 

1  "  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting,"  p.  92. 

2  "  Conversations  of  Northcote,"  Works,  Vol.  VI. 

3  One  of  his  best  essays  bears  the  title  "  On  the  Past  and  Future,"  Works, 
VI,  21  ;  see  also  the  "  New  School  of  Reform,"  Works,  VII,  179  ff. 

4  "  Memoirs,"  II,  297.   .See  also  "  On  Reading  Old  Hooks  "  and  "  On  Reading 
New  Books."  5  '■  Picture  Galleries  in  England,"  Works,  Vol.  IX. 


INTRODUCTION  Ixv 

He  insisted  that  a  man  should  be  himself  and  not  try  to  be 
somebody  else.  "  Nothing  remarkable  was  ever  done  except  by 
following  up  the  impulse  of  our  own  minds,  by  grappling  with 
difficulties  and  improving  our  advantages,  not  by  dreaming  over 
our  own  premature  triumphs  or  doating  on  the  achievements 
of  others."  ^  "  No  one  has  a  right  to  steal  who  is  not  rich 
enough  to  be  robbed  by  others."  "•^  In  his  brilliant  essay,  "On 
Ignorance  of  the  Learned,"  he  held  up  to  scorn  the  stupid 
ignorance  of  those  who  pretend  to  knowledge  got  chiefly  from 
books.''  "  I  never  felt  myself  superior  to  any  one  who  did  not 
go  out  of  his  way  to  affect  qualities  which  he  had  not."  *  "  I 
myself  have  no  such  feeling  nor  the  least  ambition  to  shine 
except  by  doing  something  better  than  others." 

As  we  close  the  review  of  Hazlitt,  the  man  and  writer,  we 
should  heed  one  of  his  remarks,  "  A  man's  life  is  his  whole  life, 
not  the  last  glimmering  snuff  of  the  candle,  and  this,  I  say,  is 
considerable  and  not  a  little  matter,  whether  we  regard  its  pleas- 
ures or  its  pains."  He  was  a  man  of  varied  attainments  and 
he  did  his  work  well.  If  he  has  not  left  a  monumental  piece, 
he  adorned  whatever  he  touched,  and  cleared  a  path  for  other 
great  writers  who  could  follow  him  in  work  practically  untried 
before  him.  He  is  always  interesting  and  will  long  be  read  by 
those  who  like  work  well  done  and  with  spirit.  His  work  was 
finished  and  he  might  well  say  with  his  last  breath,  looking  over 
the  joyful  moments  of  his  half  century,  "  Well,  I  've  had  a 
happy  life." 

1  "  English  Students  at  Rome,"  Works,  IX,  371. 
•     2  «  On  Originality,"  Works,  IX,  423. 

3  Cf.  Stevenson's  essay,  "Apology  for  Idlers." 

4  "  Characteristics  after  the  Manner  of  La  Rochefoucauld,"  Works,  \'o\.  1 1. 


Ixvi  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

VIII.    SELECTED   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

A.   WORKS 

Essay  on  the  Principles  of  Human  Action  .  .  .  with  Remarks  on  the 
System  of  Hartley  and  Helvetius.    1805. 

Free  Thoughts  on  Public  Affairs.    1806. 

Abridgment  of  Abraham  Tucker's  "  Light  of  Nature."    1807. 

Eloquence  of  the  British  Senate  (Parliamentary  Speeches  and  Notes). 
1807. 

Reply  to  Malthus.    1807. 

A  New  and  Improved  Grammar  of  the  English  Tongue,  etc.   1810. 

Memoir  of  Thomas  Holcroft,  written  by  himself,  etc.,  continued  by 
Hazlitt.    1816. 

The  Round  Table  (from  the  Examiner).   1817. 
"     Characters  of  Shakespear's  Plays.   1817,  1818. 

A  Review  of  the  English  Stage ;  or,  a  Series  of  Dramatic  Criticisms. 
1818,  1821. 
-—  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets.   18 18,  181 9. 
.^—-Lectures  on  the  English  Comic  Writers.   1819. 

Letter  to  William  Gifford.    1819. 

Political  Essays,  with  Sketches  of  Public  Characters.   1819,  1822. 

Lectures  on  the  Dramatic  Literature  of  the  Reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 
1820. 

—  Table  Talk;  or,  Original  Essays  on  Men  and  Manners.   1821-1822, 
1824. 

—  Liber  Amoris ;  or,  The  New  Pygmalion.   1823. 

Sketches  of  the  Principal  Picture  Galleries  in  England,  with  a  Criti- 
cism on  "  Marriage  a  la  Mode"  (in  part  from  London  Magazine).   1824. 
Characteristics,  in  the  Manner  of   Rochefoucauld's   Maxims.    1823, 

1837- 

—  The  Spirit  of  the  Age;  or,  Contemporary  Portraits.    1825. 

The  Plain  Speaker;  or.  Opinions  on  Books,  Men,  and  Things.   1826. 

Notes  of  a  Journey  through  France  and  Italy  (from  J\fo>-ning  Chron- 
icle).  1826. 

Boswell  Redivivus.   1827. 

The  Life  of  Napoleon  Buonaparte,  Vols.  I  and  II.  1S28.  Vols.  Ill 
and  IV.   1830. 

Conversations  of  James  Northcote,  Esq.,  R.  A.   1830. 


INTRODUCTION  Ixvii 


Posthumous  Publications 

Criticisms  on  Art,  etc.   1843,  1844. 

Literary  Remains,  etc.   1836. 
-— Winterslow  :  Essays  and  Characters,  written  there.   1S50. 

Slietches  and  Essays,  now  first  collected.  1S39.  Republished  as 
"  Men  and  Manners."   1852. 

/>'.    EDITIONS 

The  only  complete  and  perfectly  satisfactory  edition  is  by  Waller  and 
Glover  in  12  volumes  and  i  volume  containing  index.   1902-1906. 

Several  volumes  have  been  published  in  the  Bohn  Library,  the  World 
Classics  (5  vols.),  and  recently  in  the  Everyman  Library  (4  vols.)  and 
the  Temple  Classics. 

Small  volumes  of  selections  have  been  edited  by  E.  Carr  (Camelot 
Classics)  (1889);  R.  B.  Johnson  (1894);  J.  P.  Briscoe  (1901);  H.  Paul 
(Cassell  Library)  (1905);  C.  Whibley  (1906);  Quiller-Couch  (1908). 

Conversations  of  James  Northcote,  edited  with  introductory  essay  on 
Hazlitt  as  art  critic  by  Edmund  Gosse.   1894. 

Dramatic  Essays,  with  introduction  and  notes  (edited  by  W.  Archer 
and  R.  W.  Lowe.   1895). 

C.    BIOGRAPHY 

Literary  Remains  of  the  Late  William  Hazlitt,  with  a  Notice  of  his 
Life  by  his  Son,  and  Thoughts  on  his  Genius  and  Writings  by  E.  L. 
Bulwer,  Esq.,  M.P.,  and  Mr.  Serjeant  Talfourd.    2  vols.   1836. 

Memoirs  of  William  Hazlitt.    William  Carew  Hazlitt.  2  vols.   1867. 

List  of  the  Writings  of  William  Hazlitt  and  Leigh  Hunt,  chronolog- 
ically arranged  and  with  notes,  by  Alexander  Ireland.   1868. 

William  Hazlitt,  Essayist  and  Critic.  With  Memoir  by  Alexander 
Irelarid.   1889.    This  volume  contains  selections. 

A  privately  printed  edition  of  "  Liber  Amoris,"  containing  Mrs.  Hazlitt's 
Journal  of  My  Trip  to  Scotland,  edited  by  Richard  Le  Gallienne.   1S93. 

Four  Generations  of  a  Literary  Family,  the  Hazlitts  in  England, 
Ireland,  and  America,  their  Friends  and  their  Fortunes.  172 5-1896. 
William  Carew  Hazlitt.  2  vols.   1S97. 

Lamb  and  Hazlitt,  Letters  and  Records.  William  Carew  Hazlitt. 
1899. 

William  Hazlitt.  Augustine  Birrell,  English  Men  of  Letters  Series. 
1902. 


Ixviii  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

Vie  de  William  Ilazlitt,  L'Essayiste.    Jules  Douady.   Paris,  1907. 

Liste  chronologique  des  Qiuvres  de  William  Hazlitt.  Jules  Uouady. 
Paris,  1906. 

The  Manuscript  of  the  Diary  of  Henry  Crabb  Robinson  in  the  Dr. 
Williams  Library,  London. 

D.   THE  MORE  IMPORTANT  CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM 

IN  MAGAZINES 

Edinburgh  Review,  August,  1S17,  p.  472 ;  November,  1820,  p.  438. 

Monthly  Revietv,  Vol.  XCII,  p.  53  ;  Vol.  XCIII,  p.  59;  ibid.,  p.  250; 
Vol.  CI,  p.  55  ;  Vol.  CVII,  p.  I  ;  Vol.  CX,  p.  1 13  ;  Vol.  CXXIII,  p.  275. 

Blacktvood,  February,  1818,  p.  556;  March,  1818,  p.  679;  April,  1818, 
p.  71;  June,  1818,  p.  303;  August,  1818,  p.  553;  July,  1822;  August, 
1822,  p.  157;  July,  1824;  March,  1825. 

Quaiierly  Review,  Vol.  XVII,  p.  154 ;  Vol.  XVIII,  p.  458  ;  Vol.  XXII, 
p.  158 ;  Vol.  XXVI,  p.  103  ;  Vol.  XXIX,  p.  424. 

Londofi  Magazitie,  February,  1820,  p.  185  ;  April,  1821,  p.  431  ;  May, 
1821,  p.  545 ;  June,  1823,  p.  689 ;  June,  1825,  p.  182. 

E.    MISCELLANEOUS   CRITICISM. 

Dana,  R.  H.    Poems  and  Prose  Writings.   Philadelphia,  1883. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas.  Works,  V  and  VI  (edited  by  Masson). 

Dictionary  of  National  Biography  (article  by  Leslie  Stephen). 

Elton,  Oliver.   A  Survey  of  English  Literature  (17S0-1830).    1912. 

Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  Vol.  XIII. 

Gilchrist,  Mrs.  Ann.\.   Mary  Lamb.   1883. 

GiLFiLLAN,  George.  Gallery  of  Literary  Portraits  (Everyman 
Edition). 

Haydon,  B.  R.    Correspondence  and  Table  Talk.    2  vols.   1876. 

Herford,  C.  H.    The  Age  of  Wordsworth.   1899. 

Hunt,  Leigh.    Autobiography.    3  vols.   1850. 

Hunt,  Leigh.  The  Dramatic  Essays  of  (edited  by  Archer  and  Lowe). 

Keat-s,  John.   Letters  (edited  by  11.  l]uxton  Forman),  London.   1895. 

Lang,  Andrew.    Life  of  John  Gibson  Lockhart.    2  vols.   1897. 

Lucas,  E.  V.    The  Life  of  Charles  Lamb.    Fifth  edition.   19 10. 

Martineau,  Harriet.  History  of  England  during  the  Thirty  Years' 
Peace. 

Mitford,  Mary  Russell.  Life  and  Letters  (edited  by  A.  G. 
L'Estrange).    3  vols.    1870. 


INTRODUCTION  Ixix 

Moore,  Paul  Elmer.   The  Shelburne  Essays.  Second  series.  1905. 

Patmore,  p.  G.    My  Friends  and  Acquaintances. 

Procter,  Bryan  Waller  (Barry  Cornwall).  An  Autobiographical 
Fragment  and  Biographical  Notes  (edited  by  Coventry  Patmore). 
Boston,   1877. 

Saintsbury,  George  E.  Essays  on  English  Literature  (1780-1860). 
1891. 

Saintshurv,  George  E.    History  of  Criticism.   3  vols.    1900-1904. 

Stephen,  Leslie.    Hours  in  a  Library.  Vol.  II.    1874-1879. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis.  Letters  (edited  by  Sidney  Colvin). 
1911. 

Stoddard,  R.  H.  Personal  Recollections  of  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  and 
Others. 

Whipple,  E.  P.    Essays  and  Reviews.  2  vols.  1856. 

Williams,  Orlo.    Life  and  Letters  of  John  Rickman.   1912. 

Winchester,  C.  T.  A  Group  of  English  Essayists.  New  York, 
1910. 

Wordsworth.    Letters  (edited  by  William  Knight).   1907. 


SELECTIONS  EROM  HAZLITT 


HAMLET 

This  is  that  Hamlet  the  Dane,  whom  we  read  of  in  our  youth, 
and  whom  we  may  be  said  almost  to  remember  in  our  after- 
years  ;  he  who  made  that  famous  soliloquy  on  life,  who  gave 
the  advice  to  the  players,  who  thought  "  this  goodly  frame,  the 
earth,  a  steril  promontory,  and  this  brave  o'er-hanging  firma-  5 
ment,  the  air,  this  majestical  roof  fretted  with  golden  fire,  a 
foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  vapours ; "  whom  "  man 
delighted  not,  nor  woman  neither ;  "  he  who  talked  with  the 
grave-diggers,  and  moralised  on  Yorick's  skull ;  the  school-fellow 
of  Rosencrans  and  Guildenstern  at  Wittenberg;  the  friend  of  10 
Horatio ;  the  lover  of  Ophelia ;  he  that  was  mad  and  sent  to 
England ;  the  slow  avenger  of  his  father's  death ;  who  lived  at 
the  court  of  Horwendillus  five  hundred  years  before  we  were 
born,  but  all  whose  thoughts  we  seem  to  know  as  well  as  we 
do  our  own,  because  we  have  read  them  in  Shakespear.  1 5 

Hamlet  is  a  name ;  his  speeches  and  sayings  but  the  idle 
coinage  of  the  poet's  brain.  What  then,  are  they  not  real  ? 
They  are  as  real  as  our  own  thoughts.  Their  reality  is  in  the 
reader's  mind.  It  is  7ve  who  are  Hamlet.  This  play  has  a  pro- 
phetic truth,  which  is  above  that  of  history.  Whoever  has  be-  20 
come  thoughtful  and  melancholy  through  his  own  mishaps  or 
those  of  others  ;  whoever  has  borne  about  with  him  the  clouded 
brow  of  reflection,  and  thought  himself  "  too  much  i'  th'  sun ;  " 
whoever  has  seen  the  golden  lamp  of  day  dimmed  by  envious 
mists  rising  in  his  own  breast,  and  could  find  in  the  world  before  25 

I 


2  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

him  only  a  dull  blank  with  nothing  left  remarkable  in  it ;  who- 
ever has  known  "  the  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  insolence  of 
olBce,  or  the  spurns  which  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes;" 
he  who  has  felt  his  mind  sink  within  him,  and  sadness  cling  to 
5  his  heart  like  a  malady,  who  has  had  his  hopes  blighted  and  his 
youth  staggered  by  the  apparitions  of  strange  things  ;  who  can- 
not be  well  at  ease,  while  he  sees  evil  hovering  near  him  like  a 
spectre  ;  whose  powers  of  action  have  been  eaten  up  by  thought, 
he  to  whom  the  universe  seems  infinite,  and  himself  nothing ; 

lo  whose  bitterness  of  soul  makes  him  careless  of  consequences, 
and  who  goes  to  a  play  as  his  best  resource  to  shove  off,  to  a 
second  remove,  the  evils  of  life  by  a  mock  representation  of 
them  — •  this  is  the  true  Hamlet. 

We  have  been  so  used  to  this  tragedy  that  we  hardly  know 

15  how  to  criticise  it  any  more  than  we  should  know  how  to  de- 
scribe our  own  faces.  But  we  must  make  such  observations  as 
we  can.  It  is  the  one  of  Shakespear's  plays  that  we  think  of 
the  oftenest,  because  it  abounds  most  in  striking  reflections  on 
human  life,  and  because  the  distresses  of  Hamlet  are  transferred, 

20  by  the  turn  of  his  mind,  to  the  general  account  of  humanity. 
Whatever  happens  to  him  we  apply  to  ourselves,  because  he 
applies  it  so  himself  as  a  means  of  general  reasoning.  He  is  a 
great  moraliser ;  and  what  makes  him  worth  attending  to  is, 
that  he  moralises  on  his  own  feelings  and  experience.     He  is 

25  not  a  common-place  pedant.  If  Lear  shews  the  greatest  depth 
of  passion,  Hamlet  is  the  most  remarkable  for  the  ingenuity, 
originality,  and  unstudied  development  of  character.  Shakespear 
had  more  magnanimity  than  any  other  poet,  and  he  has  shewn 
more  of  it  in  this  play  than  in  any  other.    There  is  no  attempt 

30  to  force  an  interest :  everything  is  left  for  time  and  circumstances 
to  unfold.  The  attention  is  excited  without  effort,  the  incidents 
succeed  each  other  as  matters  of  course,  the  characters  think 
and  speak  and  act  just  as  they  might  do,  if  left  entirely  to  them- 
selves.   There  is  no  set  purpose,  no  straining  at  a  ]ioint.    The 


HAMLET  3 

observations  are  suggested  by  the  passing  scene  —  the  gusts  of 
passion  come  and  go  like  sounds  of  music  borne  on  the  wind. 
The  whole  play  is  an  exact  transcript  of  what  might  be  supposed 
to  have  taken  place  at  the  court  of  Denmark,  at  the  remote  pe- 
riod of  time  fixed  upon,  before  the  modern  refinements  in  morals  5 
and  manners  were  heard  of.  It  would  have  been  interesting 
enough  to  have  been  admitted  as  a  by-stander  in  such  a  scene, 
at  such  a  time,  to  have  heard  and  seen  something  of  what  was 
going  on.  But  here  we  are  more  than  spectators.  We  have  not 
only  "  the  outward  pageants  and  the  signs  of  grief ; ''  but  "we  10 
have  that  within  which  passes  shew."  We  read  the  thoughts 
of  the  heart,  we  catch  the  passions  living  as  they  rise.  Other 
dramatic  writers  give  us  very  fine  versions  and  paraphrases  of 
nature  :  but  Shakespear,  together  with  his  own  comments,  gives 
us  the  original  text,  that  we  may  judge  for  ourselves.  This  is  a  15 
very  great  advantage. 

The  character  of  Hamlet  is  itself  a  pure  effusion  of  genius. 
It  is  not  a  character  marked  by  strength  of  will  or  even  of  pas- 
sion, but  by  refinement  of  thought  and  sentiment.    Hamlet  is 
as  little  of  the  hero  as  a  man  can  well  be :  but  he  is  a  young  20 
and  princely  novice,  full  of  high  enthusiasm  and  quick  sensibility 
—  the  sport  of  circumstances,  questioning  with  fortune  and  re- 
fining on  his  own  feelings,  and  forced  from  the  natural  bias  of 
his  disposition  by  the  strangeness  of  his  situation.    He  seems 
incapable  of  deliberate  action,  and  is  only  hurried  into  extrem-  25 
ities  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion,  when  he  has  no  time  to  reflect, 
as  in  the  scene  where  he  kills  Polonius,  and  again,  where  he 
alters  the  letters  which  Rosencrans  and  Guildenstern  are  taking 
with  them  to  England,  purporting  his  death.    At  other  times, 
when  he  is  most  bound  to  act,  he  remains  puzzled,  undecided,  30 
and  sceptical,  dallies  with  his  purposes,  till  the  occasion  is  lost, 
and  always  finds  some  pretence  to  relapse  into  indolence  and 
thoughtfulness  again.     For  this  reason  he  refuses  to  kill  the 
King  when  he  is  at  his  prayers,  and  by  a  refinement  in  malice, 


4  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

which  is  in  truth  only  an  excuse  for  his  own  want  of  resolution, 
defers  his  revenge  to  some  more  fatal  opportunity,  when  he 
shall  be  engaged  in  some  act  "  that  has  no  relish  of  salvation  in  it." 

"  He  kneels  and  prays, 
5  And  now  I  '11  do  't,  and  so  he  goes  to  heaven, 

And  so  am  I  reveng'd  :  that  would  be  icaiurd. 
He  kill'd  my  father,  and  for  that, 
I,  his  sole  son,  send  him  to  heaven. 
Why  this  is  reward,  not  revenge. 
lo  Up  sword  and  know  thou  a  more  horrid  time. 

When  he  is  drunk,  asleep,  or  in  a  rage." 

He  is  the  prince  of  philosophical  speculators,  and  because  he 
cannot  have  his  revenge  perfect,  according  to  the  most  refined 
idea  his  wish  can  form,  he  misses  it  altogether.    So  he  scruples 

1 5  to  trust  the  suggestions  of  the  Ghost,  contrives  the  scene  of  the 
play  to  have  surer  proof  of  his  uncle's  guilt,  and  then  rests  sat- 
isfied with  this  confirmation  of  his  suspicions,  and  the  success 
of  his  experiment,  instead  of  acting  upon  it.  Yet  he  is  sensible 
of  his  own  weakness,  taxes  himself  with  it,  and  tries  to  reason 

20  himself  out  of  it. 

"  How  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me, 

And  spur  my  dull  revenge  !   What  is  a  man. 

If  his  chief  good  and  market  of  his  time 

Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed  .-'    A  beast ;  no  more. 
25  Sure  he  that  made  us  with  such  large  discourse, 

Looking  before  and  after,  gave  us  not 

That  capability  and  god-like  reason 

To  rust  in  us  unus'd  :  now  whether  it  be 

Bestial  oblivion,  or  some  craven  scruple 
30  Of  thinking  too  precisely  on  th'  event, — 

A  thought  which  quarter'd,  hath  but  one  part  wisdom, 

And  ever  three  parts  coward  ;  —  I  do  not  know 

Why  yet  I  live  to  say,  this  thing  's  to  do  ; 

Sith  I  have  cause,  and  will,  and  strength,  and  means 
35  To  do  it.    Examples  gross  as  earth  excite  me  : 

Witness  this  army  of  such  mass  and  charge, 

Led  by  a  delicate  and  tender  prince, 

Whose  spirit  with  divine  ambition  puff'd. 


HAMLET  5 

Makes  mouths  at  the  invisible  event, 

Exposing  what  is  mortal  and  unsure 

To  all  that  fortune,  death,  and  danger  dare. 

Even  for  an  egg-shell.    'T  is  not  to  be  great. 

Never  to  stir  without  great  argument ;  5 

But  greatly  to  find  quarrel  in  a  straw, 

When  honour's  at  the  stake.    How  stand  I  then. 

That  have  a  father  kill'd,  a  mother  stain'd. 

Excitements  of  my  reason  and  my  blood. 

And  let  all  sleep,  while  to  my  shame  I  see  lo 

The  imminent  death  of  twenty  thousand  men, 

That  for  a  fantasy  and  trick  of  fame. 

Go  to  their  graves  like  beds,  fight  for  a  plot 

Whereon  the  numbers  cannot  try  the  cause, 

Which  is  not  tomb  enough  and  continent  15 

To  hide  the  slain  ? —  O,  from  this  time  forth. 

My  thoughts  be  bloody  or  be  nothing  worth." 

Still  he  does  nothing ;  and  this  very  speculation  on  his  own  in- 
firmity only  affords  him  another  occasion  for  indulging  it.  It  is 
not  for  any  want  of  attachment  to  his  father  or  abhorrence  of  20 
his  murder  that  Hamlet  is  thus  dilatory,  but  it  is  more  to  his 
taste  to  indulge  his  imagination  in  reflecting  upon  the  enormity 
of  the  crime  and  refining  on  his  schemes  of  vengeance,  than  to 
put  them  into  immediate  practice.  His  ruling  passion  is  to  think, 
not  to  act :  and  any  vague  pretence  that  flatters  this  propensity  25 
instantly  diverts  him  from  his  previous  purposes. 

The  moral  perfection  of  this  character  has  been  called  in  ques- 
tion, we  think,  by  those  who  did  not  understand  it.  It  is  more 
interesting  than  according  to  rules  :  amiable,  though  not  faultless. 
The  ethical  delineations  of  "  that  noble  and  liberal  casuist "  (as  30 
Shakespear  has  been  well  called)  do  not  exhibit  the  drab-colourcd 
quakerism  of  morality.  His  plays  are  not  copied  either  from  the 
Whole  Duty  of  Man  or  from  The  Academy  of  Compliments ! 
We  confess,  we  are  a  little  shocked  at  the  want  of  refinement 
in  those  who  are  shocked  at  the  want  of  refinement  in  Hamlet.  35 
The  want  of  punctilious  exactness  in  his  behaviour  either  par- 
takes of  the  "  licence  of  the  time,"  or  else  belongs  to  the  very 


6  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

excess  of  intellectual  refinement  in  the  character,  which  makes 
the  common  rules  of  life,  as  well  as  his  own  purposes,  sit  loose 
upon  him.  He  may  be  said  to  be  amenable  only  to  the  tribunal 
of  his  own  thoughts,  and  is  too  much  taken  up  with  the  airy 
5  world  of  contemplation  to  lay  as  much  stress  as  he  ought  on 
the  practical  consequences  of  things.  His  habitual  principles 
of  action  are  unhinged  and  out  of  joint  with  the  time.  His  con- 
duct to  Ophelia  is  quite  natural  in  his  circumstances.  It  is  that 
of  assumed  severity  only.    It  is  the  effect  of  disappointed  hope, 

lo  of  bitter  regrets,  of  affection  suspended,  not  obliterated,  by  the 
distractions  of  the  scene  around  him  !  Amidst  the  natural  and 
preternatural  horrors  of  his  situation,  he  might  be  excused  in 
delicacy  from  carrying  on  a  regular  courtship.  When  "his  father's 
spirit  was  in  arms,"  it  was  not  a  time  for  the  son  to  make  love  in. 

15  He  could  neither  marry  Ophelia,  nor  wound  her  mind  by  ex- 
plaining the  cause  of  his  alienation,  which  he  durst  hardly  trust 
himself  to  think  of.  It  would  have  taken  him  years  to  have  come 
to  a  direct  explanation  on  the  point.  In  the  harassed  state  of  his 
mind,  he  could  not  have  done  otherwise  than  he  did.    His  con- 

20  duct  does  not  contradict  what  he  says  when  he  sees  her  funeral, 

"  I  loved  Ophelia  :  forty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not  with  all  their  quantity  of  love 
Make  up  my  sum." 

Nothing  can  be  more  affecting  or  beautiful  than  the  Queen's 
25  apostrophe  to  Ophelia  on  throwing  the  flowers  into  the  grave. 

"  Sweets  to  the  sweet,  farewell. 
I  hop'd  thou  should'st  have  been  my  Hamlet's  wife  : 
I  thought  thy  bride-bed  to  have  deck'd,  sweet  maid, 
And  not  have  strew'd  thy  grave." 

30  Shakespcar  was  thoroughly  a  master  of  the  mixed  motives  of 
human  character,  and  he  here  shews  us  the  Queen,  who  was  so 
criminal  in  some  respects,  not  without  sensibility  and  affection 
in  other  relations  of  life.  —  Ophelia  is  a  character  almost  too 
exquisitely  touching  to  be  dwelt  upon.    Oh  rose  of  May,  oh 


HAMLET  7 

flower  too  soon  faded  !  Her  love,  her  madness,  her  death,  are 
described  with  the  truest  touches  of  tenderness  and  pathos.  It 
is  a  character  which  nobody  but  Shakespear  could  have  drawn 
in  the  way  that  he  has  done,  and  to  the  conception  of  which 
there  is  not  even  the  smallest  approach,  except  in  some  of  the  5 
old  romantic  ballads.^  Her  brother,  Laertes,  is  a  character  we 
do  not  like  so  well :  he  is  too  hot  and  choleric,  and  somewhat 
rhodomontade.  Polonius  is  a  perfect  character  in  its  kind  ;  nor 
is  there  any  foundation  for  the  objections  which  have  been 
made  to  the  consistency  of  this  part.  It  is  said  that  he  acts  10 
very  foolishly  and  talks  very  sensibly.  There  is  no  inconsistency 
in  that.  Again,  that  he  talks  wisely  at  one  time  and  foolishly  at 
another ;  that  his  advice  to  Laertes  is  very  sensible,  and  his 
advice  to  the  King  and  Queen  on  the  subject  of  Hamlet's 
madness  very  ridiculous.  But  he  gives  the  one  as  a  father,  15 
and  is  sincere  in  it ;  he  gives  the  other  as  a  mere  courtier,  a 
busy-body,  and  is  accordingly  officious,  garrulous,  and  imper- 
tinent. In  short,  Shakespear  has  been  accused  of  inconsistency 
in  this  and  other  characters,  only  because  he  has  kept  up  the 
distinction  which  there  is  in  nature,  between  the  understand-  20 
ings  and  the  moral  habits  of  men,  between  the  absurdity  of 
their  ideas  and  the  absurdity  of  their  motives.  Polonius  is  not  a 
fool,  but  he  makes  himself  so.  His  folly,  whether  in  his  actions 
or  speeches,  comes  under  the  head  of  impropriety  of  intention. 

We  do  not  like  to  see  our  author's  plays  acted,  and  least  of  25 
all,  Hamlet.    There  is  no  play  that  suffers  so  much  in  being 
transferred  to  the  stage.    Hamlet  himself  seems  hardly  capable 
of  being  acted.    Mr.  Kemble  unavoidably  fails  in  this  character 
from  a  want  of  ease  and  variety.    The  character  of  Hamlet  is 

1  In  the  account  of  her  death,  a  friend  has  pointed  out  an  instance  of  the 
poet's  exact  observation  of  nature  :  — 

"  There  is  a  willow  growing  o'er  a  brook, 
That  shows  its  hoary  leaves  i'  th'  glassy  stream." 

The  inside  of  the  leaves  of  the  willow,  next  the  water,  is  of  a  whitish  colour,  and 
the  reflection  would  therefore  be  "  hoary." 


8  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

made  up  of  undulating  lines ;  it  has  the  yielding  flexibility  of 
"  a  wave  o'  th'  sea."  Mr.  Kemble  plays  it  like  a  man  in  armour, 
with  a  determined  inveteracy  of  purpose,  in  one  undeviating 
straight  line,  which  is  as  remote  from  the  natural  grace  and 
5  refined  susceptibility  of  the  character,  as  the  sharp  angles 
and  abrupt  starts  which  Mr.  Kean  introduces  into  the  part. 
Mr.  Kean's  Hamlet  is  as  much  too  splenetic  and  rash  as  Mr. 
Kemble's  is  too  deliberate  and  formal.  His  manner  is  too  strong 
and  pointed.    He  throws  a  severity,  approaching  to  virulence, 

lo  into  the  common  observations  and  answers.  There  is  nothing  of 
this  in  Hamlet.  He  is,  as  it  were,  wrapped  up  in  his  reflections, 
and  only  thinks  aloud.  There  should  therefore  be  no  attempt  to 
impress  what  he  says  upon  others  by  a  studied  exaggeration  of 
emphasis  or  manner ;  no  talking  at  his  hearers.    There  should 

15  be  as  much  of  the  gentleman  and  scholar  as  possible  infused 
into  the  part,  and  as  little  of  the  actor.  A  pensive  air  of  sadness 
should  sit  reluctantly  upon  his  brow,  but  no  appearance  of  fixed 
and  sullen  gloom.  He  is  full  of  weakness  and  melancholy,  but 
there  is  no  harshness  in  his  nature.    He  is  the  most  amiable  of 

20  misanthropes. 


ON  THE  PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS 

"The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man." 

I  now  come  to  speak  of  that  sort  of  writing  which  has  been 
so  successfully  cultivated  in  this  country  by  our  periodical 
Essayists,  and  which  consists  in  applying  the  talents  and  re- 
sources of  the  mind  to  all  that  mixed  mass  of  human  affairs, 
which,  though  not  included  under  the  head  of  any  regular  art,  5 
science,  or  profession,  falls  under  the  cognizance  of  the  writer, 
and  "  comes  home  to  the  business  and  bosoms  of  men."  Quic- 
quid  agunt  hotnijies  nostri  farrago  libeili,  is  the  general  motto  of 
this  department  of  literature.  It  does  not  treat  of  minerals  or 
fossils,  of  the  virtues  of  plants,  or  the  influence  of  planets ;  it  10 
does  not  meddle  with  forms  of  belief,  or  systems  of  philosophy, 
nor  launch  into  the  world  of  spiritual  existences ;  but  it  makes 
familiar  with  the  world  of  men  and  women,  records  their  actions, 
assigns  their  motives,  exhibits  their  whims,  characterises  their 
pursuits  in  all  their  singular  and  endless  variety,  ridicules  their  1 5 
absurdities,  exposes  their  inconsistencies,  "  holds  the  mirror  up 
to  nature,  and  shews  the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time  its 
form  and  pressure ; "  takes  minutes  of  our  dress,  air,  looks, 
words,  thoughts,  and  actions ;  shews  us  what  we  are,  and  what 
we  are  not ;  plays  the  whole  game  of  human  life  over  before  20 
us,  and  by  making  us  enlightened  spectators  of  its  many-coloured 
scenes,  enables  us  (if  possible)  to  become  tolerably  reasonable 
agents  in  the  one  in  which  we  have  to  perform  a  part.  "  The 
act  and  practic  part  of  life  is  thus  made  the  mistress  of  our 
theorique."  It  is  the  best  and  most  natural  course  of  study.  It  25 
is  in  morals  and  manners  what  the  experimental  is  in  natural 
philosophy,  as  opposed  to  the  dogmatical  method.     It  does  not 

9 


lO  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

deal  in  sweeping  clauses  of  proscription  and  anathema,  but  in 
nice  distinction  and  liberal  constructions.  It  makes  up  its  general 
accounts  from  details,  its  few  theories  from  many  facts.  It  does 
not  tr)'  to  prove  all  black  or  all  white  as  it  wishes,  but  lays  on 
5  the  intermediate  colours,  (and  most  of  them  not  unpleasing 
ones,)  as  it  finds  them  blended  with  ''  the  web  of  our  life,  which 
is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and  ill  together."  It  inquires  what 
human  life  is  and  has  been,  to  shew  what  it  ought  to  be.  It 
follows  it  into  courts  and  camps,  into  town  and  country,  into 

10  rustic  sports  or  learned  disputations,  into  the  various  shades  of 
prejudice  or  ignorance,  of  refinement  or  barbarism,  into  its  pri- 
vate haunts  or  public  pageants,  into  its  weaknesses  and  little- 
nesses, its  professions  and  its  practices  —  before  it  pretends  to 
distinguish  right  from  wrong,  or  one  thing  from  another.    How, 

15  indeed,  should  it  do  so  otherwise? 

"  Quid  sit  pulchrum,  quid  turpe,  quid  utile,  quid  non, 
rienius  et  melius  Chrysippo  et  Crantore  dicit." 

The  writers  I  speak  of  are,  if  not  moral  philosophers,  moral  his- 
torians, and  that 's  better  :  or  if  they  are  both,  they  found  the  one 

20  character  upon  the  other ;  their  premises  precede  their  conclu- 
sions ;  and  we  put  faith  in  their  testimony,  for  we  know  that  it  is  true. 
Montaigne  was  the  first  person  who  in  his  Essays  led  the  way 
to  this  kind  of  writing  among  the  moderns.  The  great  merit  of 
Montaigne  then  was,  that  he  may  be  said  to  have  been  the  first 

25  who  had  the  courage  to  say  as  an  author  what  he  felt  as  a  man. 
And  as  courage  is  generally  the  effect  of  conscious  strength,  he 
was  probably  led  to  do  so  by  the  richness,  truth,  and  force  of 
his  own  observations  on  books  and  men.  He  was,  in  the  truest 
sense,  a  man  of  original  mind,  that  is,  he  had  the  power  of 

30  looking  at  things  for  himself,  or  as  they  really  were,  instead  of 
blindly  trusting  to,  and  fondly  repeating  what  others  told  him 
that  they  were.  He  got  rid  of  the  go-cart  of  prejudice  and 
affectation,  with  the  learned  lumber  that  follows  at  their  heels, 
because  he  could  do  without  them.    In  taking  up  his  pen  he  did 


ON  THE  PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS  II 

not  set  up  for  a  philosopher,  wit,  orator,  or  moralist,  but  he 
became  all  these  by  merely  daring  to  tell  us  whatever  passed 
through  his  mind,  in  its  naked  simplicity  and  force,  that  he 
thought  any  ways  worth  communicating.     He  did  not,  in  the 
abstract  character  of  an  author,  undertake  to  say  all  that  could  5 
be  said  upon  a  subject,  but  what  in  his  capacity  as  an  inquirer 
after  truth  he  happened  to  know  about  it.    He  was  neither  a 
pedant  nor  a  bigot.    He  neither  supposed  that  he  was  bound  to 
know  all  things,  nor  that  all  things  were  bound  to  conform  to 
what  he  had  fancied  or  would  have  them  to  be.    In  treating  of  10 
men  and  manners,  he  spoke  of  them  as  he  found  them,  not 
according  to  preconceived  notions  and  abstract  dogmas ;    and 
he  began  by  teaching  us  what  he  himself  was.     In  criticising 
books  he  did  not  compare  them  with  rules  and  systems,  but  told 
us  what  he  saw  to  like  or  dislike  in  them.    He  did  not  take  his  15 
standard  of  excellence  "  according  to  an  exact  scale"  of  Aristotle, 
or  fall  out  with  a  work  that  was  good  for  anything,  because 
"  not  one  of  the  angles  at  the  four  corners  was  a  right  one." 
He  was,  in  a  word,  the  first  author  who  was  not  a  bookmaker, 
and  who  wrote  not  to  make  converts  of  others  to  established  20 
creeds  and  prejudices,  but  to  satisfy  his  own  mind  of  the  truth 
of   things.     In   this   respect   we  know  not  which  to  be  most 
charmed  with,  the  author  or  the  man.   There  is  an  inexpressible 
frankness  and  sincerity,  as  well  as  power,  in  what  he  writes. 
There  is  no  attempt  at  imposition  or  concealment,  no  juggling  25 
tricks  or  solemn  mouthing,  no  laboured  attempts  at  proving 
himself  always  in  the  right,  and  everybody  else  in  the  wrong; 
he  says  what  is  uppermost,  lays  open  what  floats  at  the  top  or 
the  bottom  of  his  mind,  and  deserves  Pope's  character  of  him, 
where  he  professes  to  3° 

" pour  out  all  as  plain 


As  downright  Shippen,  or  as  old  Montaigne 


"1 


1  Why  Pope  should  say  in  reference  to  him,  "  Or  more  wise  Charron,"  is  not 
easy  to  determine. 


12  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

He  does  not  converse  with  us  like  a  pedagogue  with  his  pupil, 
whom  he  wishes  to  make  as  great  a  blockhead  as  himself,  but 
like  a  philosopher  and  friend  who  has  passed  through  life  with 
thought  and  observation,  and  is  willing  to  enable  others  to  pass 
5  through  it  with  pleasure  and  profit.  A  writer  of  this  stamp,  I 
confess,  appears  to  me  as  much  superior  to  a  common  book- 
worm, as  a  library  of  real  books  is  superior  to  a  mere  book- 
case, painted  and  lettered  on  the  outside  with  the  names  of 
celebrated  works.    As  he  was  the  first  to  attempt  this  new  way 

lo  of  writing,  so  the  same  strong  natural  impulse  which  prompted 
the  undertaking,  carried  him  to  the  end  of  his  career.  The  same 
force  and  honesty  of  mind  which  urged  him  to  throw  off  the 
shackles  of  custom  and  prejudice,  would  enable  him  to  complete 
his  triumph  over  them.    He  has  left  little  for  his  successors  to 

15  achieve  in  the  way  of  just  and  original  speculation  on  human 
life.  Nearly  all  the  thinking  of  the  two  last  centuries  of  that 
kind  which  the  French  denominate  morale  obsefvatrice,  is  to  be 
found  in  Montaigne's  Essays :  there  is  the  germ,  at  least,  and 
generally  much  more.   He  sowed  the  seed  and  cleared  away  the 

20  rubbish,  even  where  others  have  reaped  the  fruit,  or  cultivated 
and  decorated  the  soil  to  a  greater  degree  of  nicety  and  perfec- 
tion. There  is  no  one  to  whom  the  old  Latin  adage  is  more 
applicable  than  to  Montaigne,  "  Pereant  isti  qui  ante  nos  nostra 
dixeriint."    There  has  been  no  new  impulse  given  to  thought 

25  since  his  time.  Among  the  specimens  of  criticisms  on  authors 
which  he  has  left  us,  are  those  on  Virgil,  Ovid,  and  Boccaccio, 
in  the  account  of  books  which  he  thinks  worth  reading,  or  (which 
is  the  same  thing)  which  he  finds  he  can  read  in  his  old  age,  and 
which  may  be  reckoned  among  the  few  criticisms  which  are 

30  worth  reading  at  any  age.^ 

1  As  an  instance  of  his  general  power  of  reasoning,  I  shall  give  his  chapter 
entitled  One  Maifs  Profit  is  anollicr's  Loss,  in  which  he  has  nearly  anticipated 
Mandeville's  celebrated  paradox  of  private  vices  being  public  benefits  :  — 

Demades,  the  Athenian,  condemned  a  fellow-citizen,  who  furnished  out  funerals, 
for  demanding  too  great  a  price  for  his  goods :  and  if  he  got  an  estate,  it  must  be  by  the 


ON  THE  PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS  1 3 

Montaigne's  Essays  were  translated  into  English  by  Charles 
Cotton,  who  was  one  of  the  wits  and  poets  of  the  age  of  Charles 
II.  ;  and  Lord  Halifax,  one  of  the  noble  critics  of  that  day,  de- 
clared it  to  be  "  the  book  in  the  world  he  was  the  best  pleased 
with."    This  mode  of  familiar  Essay-writing,  free  from  the  tram-  5 
mels  of  the  schools,  and  the  airs  of  professed  authorship,  was 
successfully  imitated,  about  the  same  time,  by  Cowley  and  Sir 
William  Temple,  in  their  miscellaneous  Essays,  which  are  very 
agreeable  and  learned  talking  upon  paper.    Lord  Shaftesbury, 
on  the  contrary,  who  aimed  at  the  same  easy,  degage  mode  of  10 
communicating  his  thoughts  to  the  world,  has  quite  spoiled  his 
matter,  which  is  sometimes  valuable,  by  his  manner,  in  which 
he  carries  a  certain  flaunting,  flowery,  figurative,  flirting  style 
of  amicable  condescension  to  the  reader,  to  an  excess  more  tan- 
talising than  the  most  starched  and  ridiculous  formality  of  the  15 
age  of  James  I.    There  is  nothing  so  tormenting  as  the  affecta- 
tion of  ease  and  freedom  from  affectation. 

The  ice  being  thus  thawed,  and  the  barrier  that  kept  authors 
at  a  distance  from  common  sense  and  feeling  broken  through, 
the  transition  was  not  difficult  from  Montaigne  and  his  imitators  20 
to  our  Periodical  Essayists.    These  last  applied  the  same  unre- 
strained expression  of  their  thoughts  to  the  more  immediate  and 

death  of  a  great  many  people  :  but  I  think  it  a  sentence  ill  grounded,  forasmuch  as  no 
profit  can  be  made,  but  at  the  expense  of  some  other  person,  and  that  every  kind  of  gain 
is  by  that  rule  liable  to  be  condemned.  The  tradesman  thrives  by  the  debauchery  of 
youth,  and  the  farmer  by  the  dcarness  of  corn;  the  architect  by  the  ruin  of  buildings, 
the  officers  of  justice  by  quarrels  and  law-suits ;  nay,  even  the  honour  and  function  of 
divines  is  owing  to  our  mortality  and  vices.  No  physician  takes  pleasure  in  the  health 
even  of  his  best  friends,  said  the  ancient  Greek  comedian,  nor  soldier  in  the  peace  of  his 
country ;  and  so  of  the  rest.  And,  what  is  yet  worse,  let  every  one  but  examine  his  own 
heart,  and  he  will  find,  that  his  private  wishes  spring  and  grow  up  at  the  expense  of  some 
other  person.  Upon  which  consideration  this  thought  came  into  my  head,  that  nature 
does  not  hereby  deviate  from  her  general  policy ;  for  the  naturalists  hold,  that  the  birth, 
nourishment,  and  increase  of  any  one  thing  is  the  decay  and  corruption  of  another : 

"  Navi  qiiodcHiiquc  siiis  iiiutatum  finibus  exit, 
Continuo  hoc  mors  est  illitis,  quod/uit  ante.  i.  e. 

For  what  from  its  own  confines  chang'd  doth  pass, 
Is  straight  the  death  of  what  before  it  was." 

Vol.  1,  Chap.  x.\i. 


14  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

passing  scenes  of  life,  to  temporary  and  local  matters ;  and  in 
order  to  discharge  the  invidious  office  of  Censor  Morum  more 
freely,  and  with  less  responsibility,  assumed  some  fictitious  and 
humorous  disguise,  which,  however,  in  a  great  degree  corre- 
5  sponded  to  their  own  peculiar  habits  and  character.  By  thus  con- 
cealing their  own  name  and  person  under  the  title  of  the  Tatler, 
Spectator,  &c.,  they  were  enabled  to  inform  us  more  fully  of 
what  was  passing  in  the  world,  while  the  dramatic  contrast  and 
ironical  point  of  view  to  which  the  whole  is  subjected,  added  a 

lo  greater  liveliness  ^.vA piquancy  to  the  descriptions.  The  philoso- 
pher and  wit  here  commences  newsmonger,  makes  himself 
master  of  "  the  perfect  spy  o'  th'  time,"  and  from  his  various 
walks  and  turns  through  life,  brings  home  little  curious  speci- 
mens of  the  humours,  opinions,  and  manners  of  his  contempo- 

15  raries,  as  the  botanist  brings  home  different  plants  and  weeds, 
or  the  mineralogist  different  shells  and  fossils,  to  illustrate  their 
several  theories,  and  be  useful  to  mankind. 

The  first  of  these  papers  that  was  attempted  in  this  country 
was  set  up  by  Steele  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century ;  and 

20  of  all  our  periodical  Essayists,  the  Tatler  (for  that  was  the  name 
he  assumed)  has  always  appeared  to  me  the  most  amusing  and 
agreeable.  Montaigne,  whom  I  have  proposed'  to  consider  as 
the  father  of  this  kind  of  personal  authorship  among  the  moderns, 
in  which  the  reader  is  admitted  behind  the  curtain,  and  sits  down 

25  with  the  writer  in  his  gown  and  slippers,  was  a  most  magnani- 
mous and  undisguised  egotist ;  but  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  Esq.  was 
the  more  disinterested  gossip  of  the  two.  The  French  author  is 
contented  to  describe  the  peculiarities  of  his  own  mind  and  con- 
stitution, which  he  docs  with  a  copious  and  unsparing  hand. 

30  The  English  journalist  good-naturedly  lets  you  into  the  secret 
both  of  his  own  affairs  and  those  of  others.  A  young  lady,  on 
the  other  side  Temple  Bar,  cannot  be  seen  at  her  glass  for  half 
a  day  together,  but  Mr.  Bickerstaff  takes  due  notice  of  it ;  and 
he  has  the  first  intelligence  of  the  symptoms  of  the  belle  passion 


ON  THE   PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS  1$ 

appearing  in  any  young  gentleman  at  the  West-end  of  the  town. 
The  departures  and  arrivals  of  widows  with  handsome  jointures, 
either  to  bury  their  grief  in  the  country,  or  to  procure  a  second 
husband  in  town,  are  punctually  recorded  in  his  pages.     He  is 
well  acquainted  with  the  celebrated  beauties  of  the  preceding  age  5 
at  the  court  of  Charles  II.;  and  the  old  gentleman  (as  he  feigns 
himself)  often  grows  romantic  in  recounting  "  the  disastrous 
strokes  which  his  youth  suffered  "  from  the  glances  of  their  bright 
eyes,  and  their  unaccountable  caprices.    In  particular,  he  dwells 
with  a  secret  satisfaction  on  the  recollection  of  one  of  his  mis-  10 
tresses,  who  left  him  for  a  richer  rival,  and  whose  constant  re- 
proach to  her  husband,  on  occasion  of  any  quarrel  between  them, 
was  "  I,  that  might  have  married  the  famous  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  to 
be  treated  in  this  manner !  "    The  club  at  the  Trumpet  consists 
of  a  set  of  persons  almost  as  w^ell  worth  knowing  as  himself.  The  1 5 
cavalcade  of  the  justice  of  the  peace,  the  knight  of  the  shire,  the 
country  squire,  and  the  young  gentleman,  his  nephew,  who  came 
to  wait  on  him  at  his  chambers,  in  such  form  and  ceremony, 
seem  not  to  have  settled  the  order  of  their  precedence  to  this 
hour^  and  I  should  hope  that  the  upholsterer  and  his  companions,  20 
who  used  to  sun  themselves  in  the  Green  Park,  and  who  broke 
their  rest  and  fortunes  to  maintain  the  balance  of  power  in  Eu- 
rope, stand  as  fair  a  chance  for  immortality  as  some  modern 
politicians.    Mr.  Bickerstaff  himself  is  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar, 
a  humorist,  and  a  man  of  the  world ;  with  a  great  deal  of  nice  25 
easy  naivete  about  him.     If  he  walks  out  and  is  caught  in  a 
shower  of  rain,  he  makes  amends  for  this  unlucky  accident  by  a 
criticism  on  the  show-er  in  Virgil,  and  concludes  with  a  burlesque 
copy  of  verses  on  a  city-shower.     He  entertains  us,  when  he 
dates  from  his  own  apartments,  with  a  quotation  from  Plutarch,  30 
or  a  moral  reflection ;  from  the  Grecian  coffee-house  with  pol- 
itics ;  and  from  Wills'  or  the  Temple,  with  the  poets  and  players, 
the  beaux  and  men  of  wit  and  pleasure  about  town.    In  reading 

1  No.  125. 


l6  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

the  pages  of  the  Tatler,  we  seem  as  if  suddenly  carried  back 
to  the  age  of  Queen  Anne,  of  toupees  and  full-bottomed  peri- 
wigs. The  whole  appearance  of  our  dress  and  manners  under- 
goes a  delightful  metamorphosis.  The  beaux  and  the  belles 
S  are  of  a  quite  different  species  from  what  they  are  at  present ; 
we  distinguish  the  dappers,  the  smarts,  and  the  pretty  fellows, 
as  they  pass  by  Mr.  Lilly's  shop-windows  in  the  Strand ;  we 
are  introduced  to  Betterton  and  Mrs.  Oldfield  behind  the  scenes  ; 
are  made  familiar  with  the  persons  and  performances  of  \\'ill 

lo  Estcourt  or  Tom  Durfey ;  we  listen  to  a  dispute  at  a  tavern  on 
the  merits  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  or  Marshal  Turenne ; 
or  are  present  at  the  first  rehearsal  of  a  play  by  A^anbrugh,  or 
the  reading  of  a  new  poem  by  Mr.  Pope.  The  privilege  of  thus 
virtually  transporting  ourselves  to  past  times  is  even  greater 

1 5  than  that  of  visiting  distant  places  in  reality.  London,  a  hundred 
years  ago,  would  be  much  better  worth  seeing  than  Paris  at 
the  present  moment. 

It  will  be  said,  that  all  this  is  to  be  found,  in  the  same  or  a 
greater  degree,  [in  the  Spectator.    For  myself,  I  do  not  think 

20  so  ;  or  at  least,  there  is  in  the  last  work  a  much  greater  propor- 
tion of  common-place  matter.  I  have,  on  this  account,  always 
preferred  the  Tatler  to  the  Spectator.  Whether  it  is  owing  to 
my  having  been  earlier  or  better  acquainted  with  the  one  than 
the  other,  my  pleasure  in  reading  these  two  admirable  works  is 

25  not  in  proportion  to  their  comparative  reputation.  The  Tatler 
contains  only  half  the  number  of  volumes,  and,  I  will  venture  to 
say,  nearly  an  equal  quantity  of  sterling  wit  and  sense.  "  The 
first  sprightly  runnings  "  are  there :  it  has  more  of  the  original 
spirit,  more  of  the  freshness  and  stamp  of  nature.    The  indica- 

30  tions  of  character  and  strokes  of  humour  are  more  true  and  fre- 
quent ;  the  reflections  that  suggest  themselves  arise  more  from 
the  occasion,  and  are  less  spun  out  into  regular  dissertations. 
They  are  more  like  the  remarks  which  occur  in  sensible  con- 
versation,  and   less  like   a   lecture.     Something   is   left   to   the 


ON  THE  PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS  I  7 

understanding  of  the  reader.  Steele  seems  to  have  gone  into 
his  closet  chiefly  to  set  down  what  he  observed  out  of  doors. 
Addison  seems  to  have  spent  most  of  his  time  in  his  study,  and 
to  have  spun  out  and  wire-drawn  the  hints,  which  he  borrowed 
from  Steele,  or  took  from  nature,  to  the  utmost.  I  am  far  fnjm  5 
wishing  to  depreciate  Addison's  talents,  but  I  am  anxious  to  do 
justice  to  Steele,  who  was,  I  think,  upon  the  whole,  a  less  arti- 
ficial and  more  original  writer.  The  humorous  descriptions  of 
Steele  resemble  loose  sketches,  or  fragments  of  a  comedy  ;  those 
of  Addison  are  rather  comments  or  ingenious  paraphrases  on  the  10 
genuine  text.  The  characters  of  the  club  not  only  in  the  Tatler, 
but  in  the  Spectator,  were  drawn  by  Steele.  That  of  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley  is  among  the  number.  Addison  has,  however, 
gained  himself  immortal  honour  by  his  manner  of  filling  up  this 
last  character.  Who  is  there  that  can  forget,  or  be  insensible  to,  1 5 
the  inimitable  nameless  graces  and  varied  traits  of  nature  and 
of  old  English  character  in  it  —  to  his  unpretending  virtues  and 
amiable  weaknesses  —  to  his  modesty,  generosity,  hospitality, 
and  eccentric  whims  —  to  the  respect  of  his  neighbours,  and 
the  affection  of  his  domestics  —  to  his  wayward,  hopeless,  secret  20 
passion  for  his  fair  enemy,  the  widow,  in  which  there  is  more 
of  real  romance  and  true  delicacy,  than  in  a  thousand  tales  of 
knight-errantry  —  (we  perceive  the  hectic  flush  of  his  cheek, 
the  faltering  of  his  tongue  in  speaking  of  her  bewitching  airs 
and  "  the  whiteness  of  her  hand  ")  —  to  the  havoc  he  makes  25 
among  the  game  in  his  neighbourhood  —  to  his  speech  from 
the  bench,  to  shew  the  Spectator  what  is  thought  of  him  in  the 
country  —  to  his  unwillingness  to  be  put  up  as  a  sign-post,  and 
his  having  his  own  likeness  turned  into  the  Saracen's  head  — 
to  his  gentle  reproof  of  the  baggage  of  a  gipsy  that  tells  him  30 
"  he  has  a  widow  in  his  line  of  life  "  —  to  his  doubts  as  to  the 
existence  of  witchcraft,  and  protection  of  reputed  witches  —  to 
his  account  of  the  family  pictures,  and  his  choice  of  a  chaplain  — 
to  his  falling  asleep  at  church,  and  his  reproof  of  John  \\'illiams, 


1 8  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

as  soon  as  he  recovered  from  his  nap,  for  talking  in  sermon- 
time.  The  characters  of  Will.  Wimble  and  Will.  Honeycomb 
are  not  a  whit  behind  their  friend,  Sir  Roger,  in  delicacy  and 
felicity.  The  delightful  simplicity  and  good-humoured  officious- 
5  ness  in  the  one  are  set  off  by  the  graceful  affectation  and  courtly 
pretension  in  the  other.  How  long  since  I  first  became  ac- 
quainted with  these  two  characters  in  the  Spectator !  What 
old-fashioned  friends  they  seem,  and  yet  I  am  not  tired  of  them 
like  so  many  other  friends,  nor  they  of  me !    How  airy  these 

10  abstractions  of  the  poet's  pen  stream  over  the  dawn  of  our 
acquaintance  with  human  life !  how  they  glance  their  fairest 
colours  on  the  prospect  before  us  !  how  pure  they  remain  in  it 
to  the  last,  like  the  rainbow  in  the  evening-cloud,  which  the 
rude  hand  of  time  and  experience  can  neither  soil  nor  dissipate  ! 

1 5  What  a  pity  that  we  cannot  find  the  reality,  and  yet  if  we  did, 
the  dream  would  be  over.  I  once  thought  I  knew  a  Will.  Wimble, 
and  a  Will.  Honeycomb,  but  they  turned  out  but  indifferently ; 
the  originals  in  the  Spectator  still  read,  word  for  word,  the  same 
that  they  always  did.  We  have  only  to  turn  to  the  page,  and  find 

2o  them  where  we  left  them  !  —  Many  of  the  most  exquisite  pieces 
in  the  Tatler,  it  is  to  be  observed,  are  Addison's,  as  the  Court  of 
Honour,  and  the  Personification  of  Musical  Instruments,  with 
almost  all  those  papers  that  form  regular  sets  or  series.  I  do 
not  know  whether  the  picture  of  the  family  of  an  old  college 

25  acquaintance,  in  the  Tatler,  where  the  children  run  to  let  Mr. 
Bickerstaff  in  at  the  door,  and  where  the  one  that  loses  the  race 
that  way,  turns  back  to  tell  the  father  that  he  is  come;  with  the 
nice  gradation  of  incredulity  in  the  little  boy,  who  is  got  into 
Guy  of  Warwick,  and  the  Seven  Champions,  and  who  shakes  his 

30  head  at  the  improbability  of  ^sop's  Fables,  is  Steele's  or  Ad- 
dison's, though  1  believe  it  belongs  to  the  former.  The  account 
of  the  two  sisters,  one  of  whom  held  up  her  head  higher  than 
ordinary,  from  having  on  a  pair  of  flowered  garters,  and  that  of 
the  married  lady  who  complained  to  the  Tatler  of  the  neglect  of 


ON  THE  PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS  19 

her  husband,  with  her  answers  to  some  home  questions  that  were 
put  to  her,  are  unquestionably  Steele's.  —  If  the  Tatler  is  not 
inferior  to  the  Spectator  as  a  record  of  manners  and  character, 
it  is  superior  to  it  in  the  interest  of  many  of  the  stories.    Several 
of  the  incidents  related  there  by  Steele  have  never  been  sur-  5 
passed  in  the  heart-rending  pathos  of  private  distress.    I  might 
refer  to  those  of  the  lover  and  his  mistress,  when  the  theatre,  in 
which  they  were,  caught  fare  ;  of  the  bridegroom,  who  by  accident 
kills  his  bride  on  the  day  of  their  marriage ;  the  story  of  Mr. 
Eustace  and  his  wife  ;  and  the  fine  dream  about  his  own  mistress  10 
when  a  youth.    What  has  given  its  superior  reputation  to  the 
Spectator,  is  the  greater  gravity  of  its  pretensions,  its  moral  dis- 
sertations and  critical  reasonings,  by  which  I  confess  myself  less 
edified  than  by  other  things,  which  are  thought  more  lightly  of. 
Systems  and  opinions  change,  but  nature  is  always  true.    It  is  15 
the  moral  and  didactic  tone  of  the  Spectator  which  makes  us  apt 
to  think  of  Addison  (according  to  Mandeville's  sarcasm)  as  "  a 
parson  in  a  tie-wig."    Many  of  his  moral  Essays  are,  however, 
exquisitely  beautiful  and  quite  happy.    Such  are  the  reflections 
on  cheerfulness,  those  in  Westminster  Abbey,  on  the  Royal  20 
Exchange,  and   particularly  some  very  affecting  ones  on  the 
death  of  a  young  lady  in  the  fourth  volume.    These,  it  must  be 
allowed,  are  the  perfection  of  elegant  sermonising.    His  critical 
Essays  are  not  so  good.    I  prefer  Steele's  occasional  selection  of 
beautiful  poetical  passages,  without  any  affectation  of  analysing  25 
their  beauties,  to  Addison's  finer-spun  theories.    The  best  criti- 
cism in  the  Spectator,  that  on  the  Cartoons  of  Raphael,  of  which 
Mr.  Fuseli  has  availed  himself  with  great  spirit  in  his  Lectures, 
is  by  Steele.-^   I  owed  this  acknowledgment  to  a  writer  who  has 
so  often  put  me  in  good  humour  with  myself,  and  everything  30 
about  me,  when  few  things  else  could,  and  wlien  the  tomes  of 

1  The  antithetical  style  and  verbal  paradoxes  which  Burke  was  so  fond  of,  in 
which  the  epithet  is  a  seeming  contradiction  to  the  substantive,  such  as  "  proud 
submission  and  dignified  obedience,"  are,  I  think,  first  to  be  found  in  the  Tatler. 


20  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

casuistry  and  ecclesiastical  history,  with  which  the  little  duodec- 
imo volumes  of  the  Tatler  were  overwhelmed  and  surrounded, 
in  the  only  library  to  which  I  had  access  when  a  boy,  had  tried 
their  tranquillising  effects  upon  me  in  vain.  I  had  not  long  ago 
5  in  my  hands,  by  favour  of  a  friend,  an  original  copy  of  the 
quarto  edition  of  the  Tatler,  with  a  list  of  the  subscribers.  It  is 
curious  to  see  some  names  there  which  we  should  hardly  think 
of  (that  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton  is  among  them),  and  also  to  observe 
the  degree  of  interest  excited  by  those  of  the  different  persons, 

10  which  is  not  determined  according  to  the  rules  of  the  Herald's 
College.  One  literary  name  lasts  as  long  as  a  whole  race  of 
heroes  and  their  descendants !  The  Guardian,  which  followed 
the  Spectator,  was,  as  may  be  supposed,  inferior  to  it. 

The   dramatic   and    conversational    turn    which    forms   the 

1 5  distinguishing  feature  and  greatest  charm  of  the  Spectator  and 
Tatler,  is  quite  lost  in  the  Rambler  by  Dr.  Johnson.  There  is 
no  reflected  light  thrown  on  human  life  from  an  assumed  char- 
acter, nor  any  direct  one  from  a  display  of  the  author's  own. 
The  Tatler  and  Spectator  are,  as  it  were,  made  up  of  notes  and 

2o  memorandums  of  the  events  and  incidents  of  the  day,  with 
finished  studies  after  nature,  and  characters  fresh  from  the  life, 
which  the  writer  moralises  upon,  and  turns  to  account  as  they 
come  before  him :  the  Rambler  is  a  collection  of  moral  Essays, 
or  scholastic  theses,  written  on  set  subjects,  and  of  which  the 

25  individual  characters  and  incidents  are  merely  artificial  illustra- 
tions, brought  in  to  give  a  pretended  relief  to  the  dryness  of 
didactic  discussion.  The  Rambler  is  a  splendid  and  imposing 
common-place-book  of  general  topics,  and  rhetorical  declama- 
tion on  the  conduct  and  business  of  human  life.    In  this  sense, 

30  there  is  hardly  a  reflection  that  had  been  suggested  on  such  sub- 
jects which  is  not  to  be  found  in  this  celebrated  work,  and  there 
is,  perhaps,  hardly  a  reflection  to  be  found  in  it  which  had  not 
been  already  suggested  and  developed  by  some  other  author,  or 
in  the  common  course  of  conversation.   The  mass  of  intellectual 


ON  THE   PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS  21 

wealth  here  heaped  together  is  immense,  but  it  is  rather  the 
result  of  gradual  accumulation,  the  produce  of  thp  general  in- 
tellect, labouring  in  the  mine  of  knowledge  and  reflection,  than 
dug  out  of  the  quarry,  and  dragged  into  the  light  by  the  indus- 
try and  sagacity  of  a  single  mind.  I  am  not  here  saying  that  5 
Dr.  Johnson  was  a  man  without  originality,  compared  with  the 
ordinary  run  of  men's  minds,  but  he  was  not  a  man  of  original 
thought  or  genius,  in  the  sense  in  which  Montaigne  or  Lord 
Bacon  was.  He  opened  no  new  vein  of  precious  ore,  nor  did 
he  light  upon  any  single  pebbles  of  uncommon  size  and  un-  10 
rivalled  lustre.  We  seldom  meet  with  anything  to  "  give  us 
pause ;  "  he  does  not  set  us  thinking  for  the  first  time.  His 
reflections  present  themselves  like  reminiscences  ;  do  not  disturb 
the  ordinary  march  of  our  thoughts  ;  arrest  our  attention  by  the 
stateliness  of  their  appearance,  and  the  costliness  of  their  garb,  15 
but  pass  on  and  mingle  with  the  throng  of  our  impressions. 
After  closing  the  volumes  of  the  Rambler,  there  is  nothing 
that  we  remember  as  a  new  truth  gained  to  the  mind,  nothing 
indelibly  stamped  upon  the  memory ;  nor  is  there  any  passage 
that  we  wish  to  turn  to  as  embodying  any  known  principle  or  20 
observation,  with  such  force  and  beauty  that  justice  can  only  be 
done  to  the  idea  in  the  author's  own  words.  Such,  for  instance, 
are  many  of  the  passages  to  be  found  in  Burke,  which  shine  by 
their  own  light,  belong  to  no  class,  have  neither  equal  nor  coun- 
terpart, and  of  which  we  say  that  no  one  but  the  author  could  25 
have  written  them  !  There  is  neither  the  same  boldness  of  de- 
sign, nor  mastery  of  execution  in  Johnson.  In  the  one,  the 
spark  of  genius  seems  to  have  met  with  its  congenial  matter: 
the  shaft  is  sped ;  the  forked  lightning  dresses  up  the  face  of 
nature  in  ghastly  smiles,  and  the  loud  thunder  rolls  far  away  30 
from  the  ruin  that  is  made.  Dr.  Johnson's  style,  on  the  con- 
trary, resembles  rather  the  rumbling  of  mimic  thunder  at  one 
of  our  theatres ;  and  the  light  he  throws  upon  a  subject  is  like 
the  dazzling  effect  of  phosphorus,  or  an  ii:;// is  fa  funs  of  words. 


22  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

There  is  a  wide  difference,  however,  between  perfect  originality 
and  perfect  common-place :  neither  ideas  nor  expressions  are 
trite  or  vulgar  because  they  are  not  quite  new.  They  are  valu- 
able, and  ought  to  be  repeated,  if  they  have  not  become  quite 
5  common ;  and  Johnson's  style  both  of  reasoning  and  imagery 
holds  the  middle  rank  between  startling  novelty  and  vapid 
common-place.  Johnson  has  as  much  originality  of  thinking 
as  Addison ;  but  then  he  wants  his  familiarity  of  illustration, 
knowledge  of  character,  and  delightful  humour.  — -  What  most 

lo  distinguishes  Dr.  Johnson  from  other  writers  is  the  pomp  and 
uniformity  of  his  style.  All  his  periods  are  cast  in  the  same 
mould,  are  of  the  same  size  and  shape,  and  consequently  have 
little  fitness  to  the  variety  of  things  he  professes  to  treat  of. 
His  subjects  are  familiar,  but  the  author  is  always  upon  stilts. 

15  He  has  neither  ease  nor  simplicity,  and  his  efforts  at  playfulness, 
in  part,  remind  one  of  the  lines  in  Milton :  — 

" The  elephant 


To  make  them  sport  wreath'd  his  proboscis  Hthe." 

His  Letters  from  Correspondents,  in  particular,  are  more  pom- 
20  pous  and  unwieldy  than  what  he  writes  in  his  own  person.  This 
want  of  relaxation  and  variety  of  manner  has,  I  think,  after  the 
first  effects  of  novelty  and  surprise  were  over,  been  prejudicial 
to  the  matter.  It  takes  from  the  general  power  not  only  to 
please,  but  to  instruct.  The  monotony  of  style  produces  an 
25  apparent  monotony  of  ideas.  What  is  really  striking  and  valu- 
able, is  lost  in  the  vain  ostentation  and  circumlocution  of  the 
expression ;  for  when  we  find  the  same  pains  and  pomp  of  dic- 
tion bestowed  upon  the  most  trifling  as  upon  the  most  important 
parts  of  a  sentence  or  discourse,  we  grow  tired  of  distinguishing 
30  between  pretension  and  reality,  and  are  disposed  to  confound 
the  tinsel  and  bombast  of  the  phraseology  with  want  of  weight 
in  the  thoughts.  Thus,  from  the  imposing  and  oracular  nature 
of  the  style,  people  arc  tempted  at  first  to  imagine  that  our 


ON  THE  PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS  23 

author's  speculations  are  all  wisdom  and  profundity :  till  having 
found  out  their  mistake  in  some  instances,  they  suppose  that 
there  is  nothing  but  common-place  in  them,  concealed  under 
verbiage  and  pedantry  ;  and  in  both  they  are  wrong.  The  fault 
of  Dr.  Johnson's  st}'le  is,  that  he  reduces  all  things  to  the  same  5 
artificial  and  unmeaning  level.  It  destroys  all  shades  of  differ- 
ence, the  association  between  words  and  things.  It  is  a  perpetual 
paradox  and  innovation.  He  condescends  to  the  familiar  till  we 
are  ashamed  of  our  interest  in  it :  he  expands  the  little  till  it 
looks  big.  "  If  he  were  to  w-rite  a  fable  of  little  fishes,"  as  10 
Goldsmith  said  of  him,  "  he  would  make  them  speak  like  great 
whales."  We  can  no  more  distinguish  the  most  familiar  objects 
in  his  description  of  them,  than  we  can  a  well-known  face  under 
a  huge  painted  mask.  The  structure  of  his  sentences,  which  was 
his  own  invention,  and  which  has  been  generally  imitated  since  1 5 
his  time,  is  a  species  of  rhyming  in  prose,  where  one  clause 
answers  to  another  in  measure  and  quantity,  like  the  tagging  of 
syllables  at  the  end  of  a  verse ;  the  close  of  the  period  follows 
as  mechanically  as  the  oscillation  of  a  pendulum,  the  sense  is 
balanced  with  the  sound ;  each  sentence,  revolving  round  its  20 
centre  of  gravity,  is  contained  with  itself  like  a  couplet,  and 
each  paragraph  forms  itself  into  a  stanza.  Dr.  Johnson  is  also 
a  complete  balance-master  in  the  topics  of  morality.  He  never 
encourages  hope,  but  he  counteracts  it  by  fear ;  he  never  elicits 
a  truth,  but  he  suggests  some  objection  in  answer  to  it.  He  25 
seizes  and  alternately  quits  the  clue  of  reason,  lest  it  should  in- 
volve him  in  the  labyrinths  of  endless  error  :  he  wants  confidence 
in  himself  and  his  fellows.  He  dares  not  trust  himself  with  the 
immediate  impressions  of  things,  for  fear  of  compromising  his 
dignity ;  or  follow  them  into  their  consequences,  for  fear  of  30 
committing  his  prejudices.  His  timidity  is  the  result,  not  of 
ignorance,  but  of  morbid  apprehension.  "  He  runs  the  great 
circle,  and  is  still  at  home."  No  advance  is  made  by  his  writ- 
ings in  any  sentiment,  or  mode  of  reasoning.    Out  of  the  pale 


24  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

of  established  authority  and  received  dogmas,  all  is  sceptical, 
loose,  and  desultory :  he  seems  in  imagination  to  strengthen  the 
dominion  of  prejudice,  as  he  weakens  and  dissipates  that  of  rea- 
son ;  and  round  the  rock  of  faith  and  power,  on  the  edge  of 
5  which  he  slumbers  blindfold  and  uneasy,  the  waves  and  billows  of 
uncertain  and  dangerous  opinion  roar  and  heave  for  evermore. 
His  Rasselas  is  the  most  melancholy  and  debilitating  moral 
speculation  that  ever  was  put  forth.  Doubtful  of  the  faculties 
of  his  mind,  as  of  his  organs  of  vision,  Johnson  trusted  only  to 

lo  his  feelings  and  his  fears.  He  cultivated  a  belief  in  witches  as 
an  out-guard  to  the  evidences  of  religion ;  and  abused  Milton, 
and  patronised  Lauder,  in  spite  of  his  aversion  to  his  country- 
men, as  a  step  to  secure  the  existing  establishment  in  church 
and  state.  This  was  neither  right  feeling  nor  sound  logic. 

15  The  most  triumphant  record  of  the  talents  and  character  of 
Johnson  is  to  be  found  in  Boswell's  Life  of  him.  The  man  was 
superior  to  the  author.  When  he  threw  aside  his  pen,  which  he 
regarded  as  an  incumbrance,  he  became  not  only  learned  and 
thoughtful,  but  acute,  witty,  humorous,  natural,  honest ;   hearty 

20  and  determined,  "  the  king  of  good  fellows  and  wale  of  old 
men."  There  are  as  many  smart  repartees,  profound  remarks, 
and  keen  invectives  to  be  found  in  Boswell's  "  inventory  of  all 
he  said,"  as  are  recorded  of  any  celebrated  man.  The  life  and 
dramatic  play  of  his  conversation  forms  a  contrast  to  his  written 

25  works.  His  natural  powers  and  undisguised  opinions  were  called 
out  in  convivial  intercourse.  In  public,  he  practised  with  the  foils 
on :  in  private,  he  unsheathed  the  sword  of  controversy,  and  it 
was  "  the  Ebro's  temper."  The  eagerness  of  opposition  roused 
him  from  his  natural  sluggishness  and  acquired  timidity ;   he  re- 

30  turned  blow  for  blow ;  and  whether  the  trial  were  of  argument 
or  wit,  none  of  his  rivals  could  boast  much  of  the  encounter, 
l^urke  seems  to  have  been  the  only  person  who  had  a  chance 
with  him:  and  it  is  the  unpardonable  sin  of  Boswell's  work,  that 
he  has  purposely  omitted  their  combats  of  strength  and  skill. 


ON  THE  PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS  25 

Goldsmith  asked;  "  Does  he  wind  into  a  subject  like  a  serpent, 
as  Burke  does  ?  "    And  when  exhausted  with  sickness,  he  himself     . 
said,  "  If  that  fellow  Burke' were  here  now,  he  would  kill  me." 
It  is  to  be  observed,  that  Johnson's  colloquial  style  was  as  blunt, 
direct,  and  downright,  as  his  style  of  studied  composition  was  5 
involved  and  circuitous.    As  when  Topham  Beauclerc  and  Lang- 
ton  knocked  him  up  at  his  chambers,  at  three  in  the  morning, 
and  he  came  to  the  door  with  the  poker  in  his  hand,  but  seeing 
them,  exclaimed,  "  What,  is  it  you,  my  lads  ?  then  I  '11  have  a 
frisk  with  you  !  "    And  he  afterwards  reproaches  Langton,  who  10 
was  a  literary  milksop,  for  leaving  them  to  go  to  an  engagement 
"  with  some  un-idead  girls."    What  words  to  come  from  the 
mouth  of  the  great  moralist  and  lexicographer !    His  good  deeds 
were  as  many  as  his  good  sayings.    His  domestic  habits,  his  ten- 
derness to  servants,  and  readiness  to  oblige  his  friends;    the  15 
quantity  of  strong  tea  that  he  drank  to  keep  down  sad  thoughts ; 
his  many  labours  reluctantly  begun,  and  irresolutely  laid  aside ; 
his  honest  acknowledgment  of  his  own,  and  indulgence  to  the 
weaknesses  of  others ;    his  throwing  himself  back  in  the  post- 
chaise  with  Boswell,  and  saying,  "  Now  I  think  I  am  a  good-  20 
humoured  fellow,"  thougli  nobody  thought  him  so,  and  yet  he 
was ;    his  quitting  the  society  of  Garrick  and  his  actresses,  and 
his  reason  for  it ;    his  dining  with  Wilkes,  and  his  kindness  to 
Goldsmith ;   his  sitting  with  the  young  ladies  on  his  knee  at  the 
Mitre,  to  give  them  good  advice,  in  which  situation,  if  not  ex-  25 
plained,  he  might  be  taken  for  Falstaff ;    and  last  and  noblest, 
his  carrying  the  unfortunate  victim  of  disease  and  dissipation  on 
his  back  up  through  Fleet  Street,  (an  act  which  realises  the 
parable  of  the  good  Samaritan)  —  all  these,  and  innumerable 
others,  endear  him  to  the  reader,  and  must  be  remembered  to  30 
his  lasting  honour.    He  had  faults,  but  they  lie  buried  with  him. 
He  had  his  prejudices  and  his  intolerant  feelings ;    but  he  suf- 
fered enough  in  the  conflict  of  his  own  mind  with  them.    For  if 
no  man  can  be  happy  in  the  free  exercise  of  his  reason,  no  wise 


26  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

man  can  be  happy  without  it.  His  were  not  time-serving,  heart- 
less, hypocritical  prejudices  ;  but  deep,  inwoven,  not  to  be  rooted 
out  but  with  life  and  hope,  which  he  found  from  old  habit  nec- 
essary to  his  own  peace  of  mind,  and  thought  so  to  the  peace 
5  of  mankind.  I  do  not  hate,  but  love  him  for  them.  They  were 
between  himself  and  his  conscience ;  and  should  be  left  to 
that  higher  tribunal,  "  where  they  in  trembling  hope  repose, 
the  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God."  In  a  word,  he  has  left 
behind  him  few  wiser  or  better  men. 

lo  The  herd  of  his  imitators  shewed  what  he  was  by  their  dis- 
proportionate effects.  The  Periodical  Essayists,  that  succeeded 
the  Rambler  are,  and  deserve  to  be,  little  read  at  present.  The 
Adventurer,  by  Hawksworth,  is  completely  trite  and  vapid,  aping 
all  the  faults  of  Johnson's  style,  without  anything  to  atone  for 

15  them.  The  sentences  are  often  absolutely  unmeaning ;  and  one 
half  of  each  might  regularly  be  left  blank.  The  World,  and 
Connoisseur,  which  followed,  are  a  little  better ;  and  in  the  last 
of  these  there  is  one  good  idea,  that  of  a  man  in  indifferent 
health,  who  judges  of  every  one's  title  to  respect  from  their 

20  possession  of  this  blessing,  and  bows  to  a  sturdy  beggar  with 
sound  limbs  and  a  florid  complexion,  while  he  turns  his  back 
upon  a  lord  who  is  a  valetudinarian. 

Goldsmith's  Citizen  of  the  World,  like  all  his  works,  bears  the 
stamp  of  the  author's  mind.     It  does  not  "  go  about  to  cozen 

25  reputation  without  the  stamp  of  merit."    He  is  more  observing, 
more  original,  more  natural  and  picturesque  than  Johnson.   His. 
work  is  written  on  the  model  of  the  Persian  Letters ;    and  con- 
trives to  give  an  abstracted  and  somewhat  perplexing  view  of 
things,  by  opposing  foreign  prepossessions  to  our  own,  and  thus 

30  stripping  objects  of  their  customary  disguises.  Whether  truth  is 
elicited  in  this  collision  of  contrary  absurdities,  I  do  not  know ; 
but  I  confess  the  process  is  too  ambiguous  and  full  of  intricacy 
to  be  very  amusing  to  my  plain  understanding.  For  light  sum- 
mer reading,  it  is   like  walking  in  a  garden  full  of  traps  and 


ON  THE  PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS  2/ 

pitfalls.    It  necessarily  gives  rise  to  paradoxes,  and  there  are 
some  very  bold  ones  in  the  Essays,  which  would  subject  an  author 
less  established  to  no  very  agreeable  sort  of  ceiisum  literaria. 
Thus  the  Chinese  philosopher  exclaims  very  unadvisedly,  "  The 
bonzes  and  priests  of  all  religions  keep  up  superstition  and  im-  5 
posture  :    all  reformations  begin  with  the  laity."     Goldsmith, 
however,  was  staunch  in  his  practical  creed,  and  might  bolt  spec- 
ulative extravagances  with  impunity.    There  is  a  striking  differ- 
ence in  this  respect  between  him  and  Addison,  who,  if  he 
attacked  authority,  took  care  to  have  common  sense  on  his  side,  10 
and  never  hazarded  any  thing  offensive  to  the  feelings  of  others, 
or  on  the  strength  of  his  own  discretional  opinion.    There  is 
another  inconvenience  in  this  assumption  of  an  exotic  character 
and  tone  of  sentiment,  that  it  produces  an  inconsistency  between 
the  knowledge  which  the  individual  has  time  to  acquire,  and  15 
which  the  author  is  bound  to  communicate.     Thus  the  Chinese 
has  not  been  in  England  three  days  before  he  is  acquainted  with 
the  characters  of  the  three  countries  which  compose  this  king- 
dom, and  describes  them  to  his  friend  at  Canton,  by  extracts 
from  the  newspapers  of  each  metropolis.    The  nationality  of  20 
Scotchmen  is  thus  ridiculed  :  —  "  Edinburgh.    We  are  positive 
when   we  say,   that   Sanders   Macgregor,   lately  executed   for 
horse-stealing,  is  not  a  native  of  Scotland,  but  born  at  Carrick- 
fergus."    Now  this  is  very  good ;    but  how  should  our  Chinese 
philosopher  find  it  out  by  instinct?    Beau  Tibbs,  a  prominent  25 
character  in  this  little  work,  is  the  best  comic   sketch   since 
the  time  of  Addison ;    unrivalled  in  his  finery,  his  vanity,  and 
his  poverty. 

I  have  only  to  mention  the  names  of  the  Lounger  and  the 
Mirror,  which  are  ranked  by  the  author's  admirers  with  Sterne  30 
for  sentiment,  and  with  Addison  for  humour.  I  shall  not  enter 
into  that :  but  I  know  that  the  story  of  La  Roche  is  not  like 
the  story  of  Le  Fevre,  nor  one  hundredth  part  so  good.  Do  I 
say  this  from  prejudice  to  the  author  ?    No :  for  I  have  read  his 


28  SELECTIONS   FROM  HAZLITT 

novels.  Of  the  Man  of  the  World  I  cannot  think  so  favourably 
as  some  others ;  nor  shall  I  here  dwell  on  the  picturesque  and 
romantic  beauties  of  Julia  de  Roubigne,  the  early  favourite  of 
the  author  of  Rosamond  Gray ;  but  of  the  Man  of  Feeling  I 
5  would  speak  with  grateful  recollections :  •  nor  is  it  possible  to 
forget  the  sensitive,  irresolute,  interesting  Harley ;  and  that 
lone  figure  of  Miss  Walton  in  it,  that  floats  in  the  horizon,  dim 
and  ethereal,  the  day-dream  of  her  lover's  youthful  fancy  — 
better,  far  better  than  all  the  realities  of  life ! 


CHARACTER  OF  MR.  BURKE 

It  is  not  witliout  reluctance  that  we  speak  of  the  vices  and 
infirmities  of  such  a  mind  as  Burke's :  but  the  poison  of  high 
example  has  by  far  the  widest  range  of  destruction :  and,  for 
the  sake  of  public  honour  and  individual  integrity,  we  think  it 
right  to  say,  that  however  it  may  be  defended  upon  other  grounds,  5 
the  political  career  of  that  eminent  individual  has  no  title  to  the 
praise  of  consistency.  Mr.  Burke,  the  opponent  of  the  Ameri- 
can war,  and  Mr.  Burke,  the  opponent  of  the  French  Revolution, 
are  not  the  same  person,  but  opposite  persons  —  not  opposite 
persons  only,  but  deadly  enemies.  In  the  latter  period,  he  aban-  10 
doned  not  only  all  his  practical  conclusions,  but  all  the  principles 
on  which  they  were  founded.  He  proscribed  all  his  former 
sentiments,  denounced  all  his  former  friends,  rejected  and  reviled 
all  the  maxims  to  which  he  had  formerly  appealed  as  incontest- 
able. In  the  American  war,  he  constantly  spoke  of  the  rights  15 
of  the  people  as  inherent,  and  inalienable :  after  the  French 
Revolution,  he  began  by  treating  them  with  the  chicanery  of  a 
sophist,  and  ended  by  raving  at  them  with  the  fury  of  a  maniac. 
In  the  former  case,  he  held  out  the  duty  of  resistance  to 
oppression,  as  the  palladium  and  only  ultimate  resource  of  20 
natural  liberty  ;  in  the  latter,  he  scouted,  prejudged,  vilified  and 
nicknamed,  all  resistance  in  the  abstract,  as  a  foul  and  unnatu- 
ral union  of  rebellion  and  sacrilege.  In  the  one  case,  to  answer 
the  purposes  of  faction,  he  made  it  out,  that  the  people  are 
always  in  the  right ;  in  the  other,  to  answer  different  ends,  he  25 
made  it  out  that  they  are  always  in  the  wrong  —  lunatics  in  the 
hands  of  their  royal  keepers,  patients  in  the  sick-wards  of  an 

29 


30  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

hospital,  or  felons  in  the  condemned  cells  of  a  prison.  In  the 
one,  he  considered  that  there  was  a  constant  tendency  on  the 
part  of  the  prerogative  to  encroach  on  the  rights  of  the  people, 
which  ought  always  to  be  the  object  of  the  most  watchful  jeal- 
5  ousy,  and  of  resistance,  when  necessary :  in  the  other,  he  pre- 
tended to  regard  it  as  the  sole  occupation  and  ruling  passion  of 
those  in  power,  to  watch  over  the  liberties  and  happiness  of 
their  subjects.  The  burthen  of  all  his  speeches  on  the  American 
war,  was  conciliation,  concession,  timely  reform,  as  the  only 

lo  practicable  or  desirable  alternative  of  rebellion :  the  object  of 
all  his  writings  on  the  French  Revolution  was,  to  deprecate  and 
explode  all  concession  and  all  reform,  as  encouraging  rebellion, 
and  as  an  irretrievable  step  to  revolution  and  anarchy.  In  the 
one,  he  insulted  kings  personally,  as  among  the  lowest  and 

1 5  worst  of  mankind ;  in  the  other,  he  held  them  up  to  the  imagi- 
nation of  his  readers,  as  sacred  abstractions.  In  the  one  case, 
he  was  a  partisan  of  the  people,  to  court  popularity ;  in  the 
other,  to  gain  the  favour  of  the  Court,  he  became  the  apologist 
of  all  courtly  abuses.    In  the  one  case,  he  took  part  with  those 

20  who  were  actually  rebels  against  his  Sovereign  :  in  the  other,  he 
denounced  as  rebels  and  traitors,  all  those  of  his  own  country- 
men who  did  not  yield  sympathetic  allegiance  to  a  foreign 
Sovereign,  whom  we  had  always  been  in  the  habit  of  treating 
as  an  arbitrary  tyrant. 

25  Nobody  will  accuse  the  principles  of  his  present  Majesty,  or 
the  general  measures  of  his  reign,  of  inconsistency.  If  they 
had  no  other  merit,  they  have,  at  least,  that  of  having  been  all 
along  actuated  by  one  uniform  and  constant  spirit ;  yet  Mr. 
Burke  at  one  time  vehemently  opposed,  and  afterwards  most 

30  intemperatcly  extolled  them  :  and  it  was  for  his  recanting  his 
opposition,  not  for  his  persevering  in  it,  that  he  received  his 
pension.  He  does  not  himself  mention  his  flaming  speeches  in 
the  American  war,  as  among  the  public  services  which  had 
entided  him  to  this  remuneration. 


CHARACTER  OF  MR.  BURKE  3 1 

The  truth  is,  that  Burke  was  a  man  of  fine  fancy  and  subtle 
reflection  ;  but  not  of  sound  and  practical  judgment,  nor  of  high 
or  rigid  principles.  —  As  to  his  understanding,  he  certainly  was 
not  a  great  philosopher ;  for  his  works  of  mere  abstract  reason- 
ing are  shallow  and  inefficient :  —  nor  was  he  a  man  of  sense  and  s 
business  ;  for,  both  in  counsel  and  in  conduct,  he  alarmed  his 
friends  as  much  at  least  as  his  opponents :  —  but  he  was  an 
acute  and  accomplished  man  of  letters  —  an  ingenious  political 
essayist.     He   applied   the   habit  of  reflection,  which   he   had 
borrowed   from  his  metaphysical  studies,  but  which  was  not  lo 
competent  to  the  discovery  of  any  elementary  truth  in  that 
department,  with  great  facility  and  success,  to  the  mixed  mass 
of  human  affairs.    He  knew  more  of  the  political  machine  than 
a  recluse  philosopher ;  and  he  speculated  more  profoundly  on 
its  principles  and  general  results  than  a  mere  politician.    He  15 
saw  a  number  of  fine  distinctions  and  changeable  aspects  of 
things,  the  good  mixed  with  the  ill,  and  the  ill  mixed  with  the 
good ;  and  with  a  sceptical  indifference,  in  which  the  exercise 
of  his  own  ingenuity  was  obviously  the  governing  principle, 
suggested  various  topics  to  qualify  or  assist  the  judgment  of  20 
others.    But  for  this  very  reason,  he  was  little  calculated  to 
become  a  leader  or  a  partizan  in  any  important  practical  measure. 
For  the  habit  of  his  mind  would  lead  him  to  find  out  a  reason 
for  or  against  any  thing  :  and  it  is  not  on  speculative  refinements 
(which  belong  to  every  side  of  a  question),  but  on  a  just  estimate  25 
of  the  aggregate  mass  and  extended  combinations  of  objections 
and  advantages,  that  we  ought  to  decide  or  act.    Burke  had  the 
power  of  throwing  true  or  false  weights  into   the   scales  of 
political  casuistry,  but  not  firmness  of  mind  (or,  shall  we  say 
honesty  enough)  to  hold  the  balance.    When  he  took  a  side,  his  30 
vanity  or  his  spleen  more  frequently  gave  the  casting  vote  than 
his  judgment ;  and  the  fieriness  of  his  zeal  was  in  exact  propor- 
tion to  the  levity  of  his  understanding,  and  the  want  of  conscious 
sincerity. 


32  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

He  was  fitted  by  nature  and  habit  for  the  studies  and  labours 
of  the  closet ;  and  was  generally  mischievous  when  he  came 
out ;  because  the  very  subtlety  of  his  reasoning,  which,  left  to 
itself,  would  have  counteracted  its  own  activity,  or  found  its 
5  level  in  the  common  sense  of  mankind,  became  a  dangerous 
engine  in  the  hands  of  power,  which  is  always  eager  to  make 
use  of  the  most  plausible  pretexts  to  cover  the  most  fatal  designs. 
That  which,  if  applied  as  a  general  observation  to  human  affairs, 
is  a  valuable  truth  suggested  to  the  mind,  may,  when  forced 

lo  into  the  interested  defence  of  a  particular  measure  or  system, 
become  the  grossest  and  basest  sophistry.  Facts  or  consequences 
never  stood  in  the  way  of  this  speculative  politician.  He  fitted 
them  to  his  preconceived  theories,  instead  of  conforming  his 
theories  to  them.    They  were  the  playthings  of  his  style,  the 

15  sport  of  his  fancy.  They  were  the  straws  of  which  his  imagina- 
tion made  a  blaze,  and  were  consumed,  like  straws,  in  the  blaze 
they  had  served  to  kindle.  The  fine  things  he  said  about 
Liberty  and  Humanity,  in  his  speech  on  the  Begum's  affairs, 
told  equally  well,  whether  Warren  Hastings  was  a  tyrant  or 

20  not :  nor  did  he  care  one  jot  who  caused  the  famine  he  described, 
so  that  he  described  it  in  a  way  that  no  one  else  could.  On  the 
same  principle,  he  represented  the  French  priests  and  nobles 
under  the  old  regime  as  excellent  moral  people,  very  charitable 
and  very  religious,  in  the  teeth  of  notorious  facts,  —  to  answer 

25  to  the  handsome  things  he  had  to  say  in  favour  of  priesthood 
and  nobility  in  general ;  and,  with  similar  views,  he  falsifies  the 
records  of  our  English  Revolution,  and  puts  an  interpretation 
on  the  word  abdication,  of  which  a  schoolboy  would  be  ashamed. 
He  constructed  his  whole  theory  of  government,  in  short,  not 

30  on  rational,  but  on  picturesque  and  fanciful  principles ;  as  if  the 
king's  crown  were  a  painted  gewgaw,  to  be  looked  at  on  gala- 
days  ;  titles  an  empty  sound  to  please  the  ear ;  and  the  whole 
order  of  society  a  theatrical  procession.  His  lamentations  over 
the  age  of  chivalry,  and  his  projected  crusade  to  restore  it,  are 


CHARACTER  OF  MR.  BURKE  33 

about  as  wise  as  if  an}'  one,  from  reading  the  Beggar's  Opera, 
should  take  to  picking  of  pockets :  or,  from  admiring  the  land- 
scapes of  Salvator  Rosa,  should  wish  to  convert  the  abodes  of 
civilised  life  into  the  haunts  of  wild  beasts  and  banditti.  On 
this  principle  of  false  refinement,  there  is  no  abuse,  nor  system  5 
of  abuses,  that  does  not  admit  of  an  easy  and  triumphant 
defence ;  for  there  is  something  which  a  merely  speculative 
inquirer  may  always  find  out,  good  as  well  as  bad,  in  every 
possible  system,  the  best  or  the  worst ;  and  if  we  can  once  get 
rid  of  the  restraints  of  common  sense  and  honesty,  we  may  10 
easily  prove,  by  plausible  words,  that  liberty  and  slavery,  peace 
and  war,  plenty  and  famine,  are  matters  of  perfect  indifference. 
This  is  the  school  of  politics,  of  which  Mr.  Burke  was  at  the 
head ;  and  it  is  perhaps  to  his  example,  in  this  respect,  that  we 
owe  the  prevailing  tone  of  many  of  those  newspaper  paragraphs,  1 5 
which  Mr.  Coleridge  thinks  so  invaluable  an  accession  to  our 
political  philosophy. 

Burke's  literary  talents  were,  after  all,  his  chief  excellence. 
His  style  has  all  the  familiarity  of  conversation,  and  all  the 
research  of  the  most  elaborate  composition.  He  says  what  he  20 
wants  to  say,  by  any  means,  nearer  or  more  remote,  within  his 
reach.  He  makes  use  of  the  most  common  or  scientific  terms, 
of  the  longest  or  shortest  sentences,  of  the  plainest  and  most 
downright,  or  of  the  most  figurative  modes  of  speech.  He 
gives  for  the  most  part  loose  reins  to  his  imagination,  and  25 
follows  it  as  far  as  the  language  will  carry  him.  As  long  as  the 
one  or  the  other  has  any  resources  in  store  to  make  the  reader 
feel  and  see  the  thing  as  he  has  conceived  it,  in  its  nicest  shades 
of  difference,  in  its  utmost  degree  of  force  and  splendour,  he 
never  disdains,  and  never  fails  to  employ  them.  Vet,  in  the  30 
extremes  of  his  mixed  style,  there  is  not  much  affectation,  and 
but  little  either  of  pedantry  or  of  coarseness.  He  everywhere 
gives  the  image  he  wishes  to  give,  in  its  true  and  appropriate 
colouring :  and  it  is  the  very  crowd  and  variety  of  these  images 


34  SELECTIONS   FROM  HAZLITT 

that  has  given  to  his  language  its  peculiar  tone  of  animation 
and  even  of  passion.  It  is  his  impatience  to  transfer  his  con- 
ceptions entire,  living,  in  all  their  rapidity,  strength,  and  glancing 
variety,  to  the  minds  of  others,  that  constantly  pushes  him  to 
5  the  verge  of  extravagance,  and  yet  supports  him  there  in 
dignified  security  — 

"  Never  so  sure  our  rapture  to  create, 
As  when  he  treads  the  brink  of  all  we  hate." 

He  is  the  most  poetical  of  our  prose  writers,  and  at  the  same 
lo  time  his  prose  never  degenerates  into  the  mere  effeminacy  of 
poetry  ;  for  he  always  aims  at  overpowering  rather  than  at  pleas- 
ing ;  and  consequently  sacrifices  beauty  and  delicacy  to  force 
and  vividness.  He  has  invariably  a  task  to  perform,  a  positive 
purpose  to  execute,  an  effect  to  produce.  His  only  object 
15  is  therefore  to  strike  hard,  and  in  the  right  place ;  if  he  misses 
his  mark,  he  repeats  his  blow ;  and  does  not  care  how  ungrace- 
ful the  action,  or  how  clumsy  the  instrument,  provided  it  brings 
down  his  antagonist. 


ON  POETRY  IN  GENERAL 

The  best  general  notion  which  I  can  give  of  poetry  is,  that  it 
is  the  natural  impression  of  any  object  or  event,  by  its  vividness 
exciting  an  involuntary  movement  of  imagination  and  passion, 
and  producing,  by  sympathy,  a  certain  modulation  of  the  voice, 
or  sounds,  expressing  it.  5 

In  treating  of  poetry,  I  shall  speak  first  of  the  subject-matter 
of  it,  next  of  the  forms  of  expression  to  which  it  gives  birth, 
and  afterwards  of  its  connection  with  harmony  of  sound. 

Poetry  is  the  language  of  the  imagination  and  the  passions. 
It  relates  to  whatever  gives  immediate  pleasure  or  pain  to  the  lo 
human  mind.    It  comes  home  to  the  bosoms  and  businesses  of 
men ;    for  nothing  but  what  so   comes  home  to  them  in  the 
most  general  and  intelligible  shape,  can  be  a  subject  for  poetry. 
Poetry  is  the  universal  language  which  the  heart  holds  with 
nature  and  itself.    He  who  has  a  contempt  for  poetry  cannot  15 
have  much  respect  for  himself,  or  for  anything  else.    It  is  not 
a  mere  frivolous  accomplishment,  (as  some  persons  have  been 
led  to  imagine)  the  trifling  amusement  of  a  few  idle  readers  or 
leisure  hours  —  it  has  been  the  study  and  delight  of  mankind  in 
all  ages.    Many  people  suppose  that  poetry  is  something  to  be  20 
found  only  in  books,  contained  in  lines  of  ten  syllables,  with  like 
endings :  but  wherever  there  is  a  sense  of  beauty,  or  power,  or 
harmony,  as  in  the  motion  of  a  wave  of  the  sea,  in  the  growth 
of  a  flower  that  "  spreads  its  sweet  leaves  to  the  air,  and  dedi- 
cates its  beauty  to  the  sun,"  —  there  is  poetry,  in  its  birth.    If  25 
history  is  a  grave  study,  poetry-  may  be  said  to  be  a  graver :   its 
materials  lie  deeper,  and  are  spread  wider.    History  treats,  for 

35 


36  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

the  most  part,  of  the  cumbrous  and  unwieldy  masses  of  things, 
the  empty  cases  in  which  the  affairs  of  the  world  are  packed, 
under  the  heads  of  intrigue  or  war,  in  different  states,  and  from 
century  to  century  :  but  there  is  no  thought  or  feeling  that  can 
5  have  entered  into  the  mind  of  man  which  he  would  be  eager  to 
communicate  to  others,  or  which  they  would  listen  to  with 
delight,  that  is  not  a  fit  subject  for  poetry.  It  is  not  a  branch 
of  authorship :  it  is  "  the  stuff  of  which  our  life  is  made."  The 
rest  is  "  mere  oblivion,"  a  dead  letter :    for  all  that  is  worth 

10  remembering  in  life,  is  the  poetry  of  it.  Fear  is  poetry,  hope  is 
poetry,  love  is  poetry,  hatred  is  poetry,  contempt,  jealousy,  re- 
morse, admiration,  wonder,  pity,  despair,  or  madness,  are  all 
poetry.  Poetry  is  that  fine  particle  within  us,  that  expands, 
rarefies,  refines,  raises  our  whole  being :    without  it  "  man's  life 

15  is  poor  as  beast's."  Man  is  a  poetical  animal :  and  those  of  us 
who  do  not  study  the  principles  of  poetry,  act  upon  them  all 
our  lives,  like  Moliere's  Bourgeois  Gentilhotnme,  who  had  always 
spoken  prose  without  knowing  it.  The  child  is  a  poet  in  fact, 
when  he  first  plays  at  hide-and-seek,  or  repeats  the  story  of 

20  Jack  the  Giant-killer ;  the  shepherd-boy  is  a  poet,  when  he  first 
crowns  his  mistress  with  a  garland  of  flowers  ;  the  countryman, 
when  he  stops  to  look  at  the  rainbow  ;  the  city-apprentice,  when 
he  gazes  after  the  Lord-Mayor's  show  ;  the  miser,  when  he  hugs 
his  gold  ;  the  courtier,  who  builds  his  hopes  upon  a  smile ;  the 

25  savage,  who  paints  his  idol  with  blood  ;  the  slave,  who  worships 
a  tyrant,  or  the  tyrant,  who  fancies  himself  a  god ;  —  the  vain, 
the  ambitious,  the  proud,  the  choleric  man,  the  hero  and  the 
coward,  the  beggar  and  the  king,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the 
young  and  the  old,  all  live  in  a  world  of  their  own  making ;  and 

30  the  poet  does  no  more  than  describe  what  all  the  others  think 
and  act.  Tf  his  art  is  folly  and  madness,  it  is  folly  and  madness 
at  second  hand.  "There  is  warrant  for  it."  Poets  alone  have 
not  "  such  seething  brains,  such  shaping  fantasies,  that  appre- 
hend more  than  cooler  reason  "  can. 


ON  POETRY  IN  GENERAL  37 

"  The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet 

Are  of  imagination  all  compact. 

One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold ; 

The  madman.    While  the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 

Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt.  5 

The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 

Doth  glance  from  heav'n  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heav'n ; 

And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 

The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 

Turns  them  to  shape,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing  10 

A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 

Such  tricks  hath  strong  imagination." 

If  poetry  is  a  dream,  the  business  of  life  is  much  the  same. 
If  it  is  a  fiction,  made  up  of  what  we  wish  things  to  be,  and 
fancy  that  they  are,  because  we  wish  them  so,  there  is  no  other  1 5 
nor  better  reality.    Ariosto  has  described  the  loves  of  Angelica 
and  Medoro :   but  was  not  Medoro,  who  carved  the  name  of 
his  mistress  on  the  barks  of  trees,  as  much  enamoured  of  her 
charms  as  he  ?    Homer  has  celebrated  the  anger  of  Achilles : 
but  was  not  the  hero  as  mad  as  the  poet  ?    Plato  banished  the  20 
poets  from  his  Commonwealth,  lest  their  descriptions  of  the 
natural  man  should  spoil  his  mathematical  man,  who  was  to  be 
without  passions  and  affections,  who  was  neither  to  laugh  nor 
weep,  to  feel  sorrow  nor  anger,  to  be  cast  down  nor  elated  by 
any  thing.    This  was  a  chimera,  however,  which  never  existed  25 
but  in  the  brain  of  the  inventor ;   and  Homer's'  poetical  world 
has  outlived  Plato's  philosophical  Republic. 
^'iPoetry  then  is  an  imitation  of  nature,  but  the  imagination 
and  the  passions  are  a  part  of  man's  nature.    We  shape  things 
according  to  our  wishes  and  fancies,  without  poetry  ;   but  poetry  30 
is  the  most  emphatical  language  that  can  be  found  for  those 
creations  of  the  mind  "which  ecstasy  is  very  cunning  in."   Nei- 
ther a  mere  description  of  natural  objects,  nor  a  mere  delineation 
of  natural  feelings,  however  distinct  or  forcible,  constitutes  the 
ultimate  end  and  aim  of  poetn,',  without  the  heightenings  of  the  35 
imagination.    The  light  of  poetry  is  not  onl\-  a  direct  but  also  a 


38  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

reflected  light,  that,  while  it  shews  us  the  object,  throws  a  spark- 
ling radiance  on  all  around  it :  the  flame  of  the  passions,  com- 
municated to  the  imagination,  reveals  to  us,  as  with  a  flash  of 
lightning,  the  inmost  recesses  of  thought,  and  penetrates  our 
S  whole  being.  Poetry  represents  forms  chiefly  as  they  suggest 
other  forms ;  feelings,  as  they  suggest  forms  or  other  feelings. 
Poetry  puts  a  spirit  of  life  and  motion  into  the  universe.  It 
describes  the  flowing,  not  the  fixed.  It  does  not  define  the  limits 
of  sense,  or  analyse  the  distinctions  of  the  understanding,  but 

lo  signifies  the  excess  of  the  imagination  beyond  the  actual  or 
ordinary  impression  of  any  object  or  feeling.  The  poetical 
impression  of  any  object  is  that  uneasy,  exquisite  sense  of 
beauty  or  power  that  cannot  be  contained  within  itself ;  that  is 
impatient  of  all  limit ;    that  (as  flame  bends  to  flame)  strives  to 

15  link  itself  to  some  other  image  of  kindred  beauty  or  grandeur; 
to  enshrine  itself,  as  it  were,  in  the  highest  forms  of  fancy,  and 
to  relieve  the  aching  sense  of  pleasure  by  expressing  it  in  the 
boldest  manner,  and  by  the  most  striking  examples  of  the  same 
quality  in  other  instances.     Poetry,  according  to  Lord  Bacon, 

20  for  this  reason,  "  has  something  divine  in  it,  because  it  raises 
the  mind  and  hurries  it  into  sublimity,  by  conforming  the  shows 
of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  soul,  instead  of  subjecting  the 
soul  to  external  things,  as  reason  and  history  do."  It  is  strictly 
the  language  of  the  imagination ;    and  the  imagination  is  that 

25  faculty  which  represents  objects,  not  as  they  are  in  themselves, 
but  as  they  are  moulded  by  other  thoughts  and  feelings,  into  an 
infinite  variety  of  shapes  and  combinations  of  power.  This  lan- 
guage is  not  the  less  true  to  nature,  because  it  is  false  in  point 
of  fact ;    but  so  much  the  more  true  and  natural,  if  it  conveys 

30  the  impression  which  the  object  under  the  influence  of  passion 
makes  on  the  mind.  Let  an  object,  for  instance,  be  presented 
to  the  senses  in  a  state  of  agitation  or  fear  —  and  the  imagina- 
tion will  distort  or  magnify  the  object,  and  convert  it  into  the 
likeness  of  whatever  is  most  proper  to  encourage  the  fear. 


ON   POETRY  IN  GENERAL  39 

"  Our  eyes  arc  made  the  fools  "  of  our  other  faculties.     This  is 
the  universal  law  of  the  imagination, 

"  That  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy, 
It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy ; 
Or  in  the  night  imagining  some  fear. 
How  easy  is  each  bush  suppos'd  a  bear!  " 

When  lachimo  says  of  Imogen, 


" The  flame  o'  th'  taper 

Bows  toward  her,  and  would  under-peep  her  lids 

To  see  the  enclosed  lights  " —  10 

this  passionate  interpretation  of  the  motion  of  the  flame  to  ac- 
cord with  the  speaker's  own  feelings,  is  true  poetry.  The  lover, 
equally  with  the  poet,  speaks  of  the  auburn  tresses  of  his  mistress 
as  locks  of  shining  gold,  because  the  least  tinge  of  yellow  in  the 
hair  has,  from  novelty  and  a  sense  of  personal  beauty,  a  more  15 
lustrous  effect  to  the  imagination  than  the  purest  gold.  We  com- 
pare a  man  of  gigantic  stature  to  a  tower :  not  that  he  is  any- 
thing like  so  large,  but  because  the  excess  of  his  size  beyond 
what  we  are  accustomed  to  expect,  or  the  usual  size  of  things  of 
the  same  class,  produces  by  contrast  a  greater  feeling  of  magni-  20 
tude  and  ponderous  strength  than  another  object  of  ten  times  the 
same  dimensions.  The  intensity  of  the  feeling  makes  up  for  the 
disproportion  of  the  objects.  Things  are  equal  to  the  imagina- 
tion, which  have  the  power  of  affecting  the  mind  with  an  equal 
degree  of  terror,  admiration,  delight,  or  love.  When  Lear  calls  25 
upon  the  heavens  to  avenge  his  cause,  "  for  they  are  old  like 
him,"  there  is  nothing  extravagant  or  impious  in  this  sublime 
identification  of  his  age  with  theirs  ;  for  there  is  no  other  image 
which  could  do  justice  to  the  agonising  sense  of  his  wrongs  and 
his  despair !  30 

Poetry  is  the  high-wrought  enthusiasm  of  fancy  and  feeling. 
As  in  describing  natural  objects,  it  impregnates  sensible  impres- 
sions with  the  forms  of  fancy,  so  it  describes  the  feelings  of 
pleasure  or  pain,  by  blending  them  with  the  strongest  movements 


40  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

of  passion,  and  the  most  striking  forms  of  nature.  Tragic  poetry, 
which  is  the  most  impassioned  species  of  it,  strives  to  carry  on 
the  feeling  to  the  utmost  point  of  sublimity  or  pathos,  by  all  the 
force  of  comparison  or  contrast ;  loses  the  sense  of  present  suffer- 
5  ing  in  the  imaginary  exaggeration  of  it ;  exhausts  the  terror  or 
pity  by  an  unlimited  indulgence  of  it ;  grapples  with  impossibil- 
ities in  its  desperate  impatience  of  restraint ;  throws  us  back  upon 
the  past,  forward  into  the  future ;  brings  every  moment  of  our 
being  or  object  of  nature  in  startling  review  before  us ;  and  in 

lo  the  rapid  whirl  of  events,  lifts  us  from  the  depths  of  woe  to  the 
highest  contemplations  on  human  life.  When  Lear  says  of  Edgar, 
"  Nothing  but  his  unkind  daughters  could  have  brought  him  to 
this,"  what  a  bewildered  amazement,  what  a  wrench  of  the 
imagination,  that  cannot  be  brought  to  conceive  of  any  other 

15  cause  of  misery  than  that  which  has  bowed  it  down,  and  absorbs 
all  other  sorrow  in  its  own !  His  sorrow,  like  a  flood,  supplies 
the  sources  of  all  other  sorrow.  Again,  when  he  exclaims  in  the 
mad  scene,  "  The  little  dogs  and  all.  Tray,  Blanche,  and  Sweet- 
heart, see,  they  bark  at  me!"  it  is  passion  lending  occasion  to 

20  imagination  to  make  every  creature  in  league  against  him,  con- 
juring up  ingratitude  and  insult  in  their  least  looked-for  and 
most  galling  shapes,  searching  every  thread  and  fibre  of  his  heart, 
and  finding  out  the  last  remaining  image  of  respect  or  attach- 
ment in  the  bottom  of  his  breast,  only  to  torture  and  kill  it !   In 

25  like  manner,  the  "  So  I  am  "  of  Cordelia,  gushes  from  her  heart 
like  a  torrent  of  tears,  relieving  it  of  a  weight  of  love  and  of  sup- 
posed ingratitude,  which  had  pressed  upon  it  for  years.  What  a 
fine  return  of  the  passion  upon  itself  is  that  in  Othello  —  with 
what  a  mingled  agony  of  regret  and  despair  he  clings  to  the  last 

30  traces  of  departed  happiness  —  when  he  exclaims, 

'' Oh  now,  for  ever 

Farewel  the  tranquil  mind.    Farewel  content; 
Farewel  the  plumed  troops  and  the  big  war, 
That  make  ambition  virtue  !  Oh  farewel ! 
Farewel  the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump, 


ON   POETRY  IN   GENERAL  4 1 

The  spirit-stirring  drum,  th'  ear-piercing  fife, 

The  royal  banner,  and  all  quality, 

Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war : 

And  O  you  mortal  engines,  whose  rude  throats 

Th'  immortal  Jove's  dread  clamours  counterfeit,  5 

Farewel !  Othello's  occupation  's  gone  !  " 

How  his  passion  lashes  itself  up  and  swells  and  rages  like  a  tide 

in  its  sounding  course,  when  in  answer  to  the  doubts  expressed 

of  his  returning  love,  he  says, 

"  Never,  lago.    Like  to  the  Pontic  sea,  10 

Whose  icy  current  and  compulsive  course 
Ne'er  feels  retiring  ebb,  but  keeps  due  on 
To  the  Propontic  and  the  Hellespont: 
Even  so  my  bloody  thoughts,  with  violent  pace. 
Shall  ne'er  look  back,  ne'er  ebb  to  humble  love,  1 5 

Till  that  a  capable  and  wide  revenge 
Swallow  them  up." 

The  climax  of  his  expostulation  afterwards  with  Desdemona 

is  at  that  line, 

"  But  there  where  I  have  garner'd  up  my  heart,  20 

To  be  discarded  thence  !  " 

One  mode  in  which  the  dramatic  exhibition  of  passion  excites 
our  sympathy  without  raising  our  disgust  is,  that  in  proportion 
as  it  sharpens  the  edge  of  calamity  and  disappointment,   it 
strengthens  the  desire  of  good.    It  enhances  our  consciousness  25 
of  the  blessing,  by  making  us  sensible  of  the  magnitude  of  the 
loss.    The  storm  of  passion  lays  bare  and  shews  us  the  rich 
depths  of  the  human  soul :  the  whole  of  our  existence,  the  sum 
total  of  our  passions  and  pursuits,  of  that  which  we  desire  and 
that  which  we  dread,  is  brought  before  us  by  contrast ;  the  ac-  30 
tion  and  re-action  are  equal ;  the  keenness  of  immediate  suffer- 
ing only  gives  us  a  more  intense  aspiration  after,  and  a  more 
intimate  participation  with  the  antagonist  world  of  good  ;  makes 
us  drink  deeper  of  the  cup  of  human  life ;  tugs  at  the  heart- 
strings ;  loosens  the  pressure  about  them ;  and  calls  the  springs  35 
of  thought  and  feeling  into  play  with  tenfold  force. 


42  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

Impassioned  poetry  is  an  emanation  of  the  moral  and  intellec- 
tual part  of  our  nature,  as  well  as  of  the  sensitive  —  of  the  de- 
sire to  know,  the  will  to  act,  and  the  power  to  feel ;  and  ought 
to  appeal  to  these  different  parts  of  our  constitution,  in  order  to 
5  be  perfect.  The  domestic  or  prose  tragedy,  which  is  thought  to 
be  the  most  natural,  is  in  this  sense  the  least  so,  because  it 
appeals  almost  exclusively  to  one  of  these  faculties,  our  sensi- 
bility. The  tragedies  of  Moore  and  Lillo,  for  this  reason,  how- 
ever affecting  at  the  time,  oppress  and  lie  like  a  dead  weight  on 

lo  the  mind,  a  load  of  misery  which  it  is  unable  to  throw  off ;  the 
tragedy  of  Shakspeare,  which  is  true  poetry-,  stirs  our  inmost 
affections,  abstracts  evil  from  itself  by  combining  it  with  all  the 
forms  of  imagination,  and  with  the  deepest  workings  of  the 
heart ;  and  rouses  the  whole  man  within  us. 

15  The  pleasure,  however,  derived  from  tragic  poetry  is  not 
any  thing  peculiar  to  it  as  poetry,  as  a  fictitious  and  fanciful 
thing.  It  is  not  an  anomaly  of  the  imagination.  It  has  its  source 
and  ground-work  in  the  common  love  of  strong  excitement.  As 
Mr.  Burke  observes,  people  flock  to  see  a  tragedy ;  but  if  there 

20  were  a  public  execution  in  the  next  street,  the  theatre  would 
soon  be  empty.  It  is  not  then  the  difference  between  fiction  and 
reality  that  solves  the  difficulty.  Children  are  satisfied  with  the 
stories  of  ghosts  and  witches  in  plain  prose  :  nor  do  the  hawkers 
of  full,  true,  and  particular  accounts  of  murders  and  executions 

25  about  the  streets  find  it  necessary  to  have  them  turned  into 
penny  ballads,  before  they  can  dispose  of  these  interesting  and 
authentic  documents.  The  grave  politician  drives  a  thriving  trade 
of  abuse  and  calumnies  poured  out  against  those  whom  he  makes 
his  enemies  for  no  other  end  than  that  he  may  live  by  them. 

30  The  popular  preacher  makes  less  frequent  mention  of  heaven 
than  of  hell.  Oaths  and  nicknames  are  only  a  more  vulgar  sort 
of  poetry  or  rhetoric.  We  are  as  fond  of  indulging  our  violent 
passions  as  of  reading  a  description  of  those  of  others.  We  are 
as  prone  to  make  a  torment  of  our  fears,  as  to  luxuriate  in  our 


ON   POETRY  IN   GENERAL  43 

hopes  of  good.    If  it  be  asked,  Why  we  do  so  ?  the  best  answer 

will  be,  because  we  cannot  help  it.    The  sense  of  power  is  as 

strong  a  principle  in  the  mind  as  the  love  of  pleasure.    Objects  of 

terror  and  pity  exercise  the  same  despotic  control  over  it  as  those 

of  love  or  beauty.    It  is  as  natural  to  hate  as  to  love,  to  despise  5 

as  to  admire,  to  express  our  hatred  or  contempt,  as  our  love  or 

admiration : 

"  Masterless  passion  sways  us  to  the  mood 

Of  what  it  hkes  or  loathes." 

Not  that  we  like  what  we  loathe;  but  we  like  to  indulge  our  10 
hatred  and  scorn  of  it,  to  dwell  upon  it,  to  exasperate  our  idea 
of  it  by  every  refinement  of  ingenuity  and  extravagance  of  illus- 
tration; to  make  it  a  bugbear  to  ourselves,  to  point  it  out  to 
others  in  all  the  splendour  of  deformity,  to  embody  it  to  the 
senses,  to  stigmatise  it  by  name,  to  grapple  with  it  in  thought  15 

—  in  action,  to  sharpen  our  intellect,  to  arm  our  will  against  it, 
to  know  the  worst  we  have  to  contend  with,  and  to  contend 
with  it  to  the  utmost.  Poetr)^  is  only  the  highest  eloquence  of 
passion,  the  most  vivid  form  of  expression  that  can  be  given  to 
our  conception  of  any  thing,  whether  pleasurable  or  painful,  mean  20 
or  dignified,  delightful  or  distressing.   It  is  the  perfect  coincidence 

of  the  image  and  the  words  with  the  feeling  we  have,  and  of 
which  we  cannot  get  rid  in  any  other  way,  that  gives  an  instant 
"  satisfaction  to  the  thought."    This  is  equally  the  origin  of  wit 
and  fancy,  of  comedy  and  tragedy,  of  the  sublime  and  pathetic.  25 
When  Pope  says  of  the  Lord  Mayor's  shew^,  — 

"  Now  night  descending,  the  proud  scene  is  o'er, 
But  lives  in  Settle's  numbers  one  day  more  ! " 

—  when  Collins  makes  Danger,  "  with  limbs  of  giant  mould," 

"  Throw  him  on  the  steep  30 

Of  some  loose  hanging  rock  asleep  "  : 

when  Lear  calls  out  in  extreme  anguish, 

"  Ingratitude,  thou  marble-hearted  fiend, 
How  much  more  hideous,  shew'st  in  a  child 
Than  the  sea-monster !  "  .35 


44  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

—  the  passion  of  contempt  in  the  one  case,  of  terror  in  the  other, 
and  of  indignation  in  the  last,  is  perfectly  satisfied.  We  see  the 
thing  ourselves,  and  shew  it  to  others  as  we  feel  it  to  exist,  and 
as,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  we  are  compelled  to  think  of  it.  The 
5  imagination,  by  thus  embodying  and  turning  them  to  shape,  gives 
an  obvious  relief  to  the  indistinct  and  importunate  cravings  of 
the  will.  —  We  do  not  wish  the  thing  to  be  so ;  but  we  wish  it 
to  appear  such  as  it  is.  For  knowledge  is  conscious  power  ;  and 
the  mind  is  no  longer,  in  this  case,  the  dupe,  though  it  may  be 

10  the  victim  of  vice  or  folly. 

Poetry  is  in  all  its  shapes  the  language  of  the  imagination  and 
the  passions,  of  fancy  and  will.  Nothing,  therefore,  can  be  more 
absurd  than  the  outcry  which  has  been  sometimes  raised  by  frigid 
and  pedantic  critics,  for  reducing  the  language  of  poetry  to  the 

1 5  standard  of  common  sense  and  reason :  for  the  end  and  use  of 
poetry,  "  both  at  the  first  and  now,  was  and  is  to  hold  the  mirror 
up  to  nature,"  seen  through  the  medium  of  passion  and  imagina- 
tion, not  divested  of  that  medium  by  means  of  literal  truth  or 
abstract  reason.    The  painter  of  history  might  as  well  be  re- 

2o  quired  to  represent  the  face  of  a  person  who  has  just  trod 
upon  a  serpent  with  the  still-life  expression  of  a  common  por- 
trait, as  the  poet  to  describe  the  most  striking  and  vivid  impres- 
sions which  things  can  be  supposed  to  make  upon  the  mind,  in 
the  language  of  common  conversation.    Let  who  will  strip  nature 

25  of  the  colours  and  the  shapes  of  fancy,  the  poet  is  not  bound 
to  do  so  :  the  impressions  of  common  sense  and  strong  imagina- 
tion, that  is,  of  passion  and  indifference,  cannot  be  the  same, 
and  they  must  have  a  separate  language  to  do  justice  to  either. 
Objects  must  strike  differently  upon  the  mind,  independently  of 

30  what  they  are  in  themselves,  as  long  as  we  have  a  different 
interest  in  them,  as  we  see  them  in  a  different  point  of  view, 
nearer  or  at  a  greater  distance  (morally  or  physically  speaking) 
from  novelty,  from  old  acquaintance,  from  our  ignorance  of 
them,  fiom  our  fear  of  their  consequences,  from  contrast,  from 


ON   POETRY  IN   GENERAL  45 

unexpected  likeness.  We  can  no  more  take  away  the  faculty 
of  the  imagination,  than  we  can  see  all  objects  without  light  or 
shade.  Some  things  must  dazzle  us  by  their  preternatural  light ; 
others  must  hold  us  in  suspense,  and  tempt  our  curiosity  to 
explore  their  obscurity.  Those  who  would  dispel  these  various  5 
illusions,  to  give  us  their  drab-coloured  creation  in  their  stead, 
are  not  very  wise.  Let  the  naturalist,  if  he  will,  catch  the  glow- 
worm, carry  it  home  with  him  in  a  box,  and  find  it  next  morning 
nothing  but  a  little  grey  worm ;  let  the  poet  or  the  lover  of 
poetry  visit  it  at  evening,  when  beneath  the  scented  hawthorn  10 
and  the  crescent  moon  it  has  built  itself  a  p)alace  of  emerald 
light.  This  is  also  one  part  of  nature,  one  appearance  which 
the  glow-worm  presents,  and  that  not  the  least  interesting ;  so 
poetry  is  one  part  of  the  history  of  the  human  mind,  though  it 
is  neither  science  nor  philosophy.  It  cannot  be  concealed,  how-  1 5 
ever,  that  the  progress  of  knowledge  and  refinement  has  a  tend- 
ency to  circumscribe  the  limits  of  the  imagination,  and  to  clip 
the  wings  of  poetry.  The  province  of  the  imagination  is  princi- 
pally visionar)',  the  unknown  and  undefined  :  the  understanding 
restores  things  to  their  natural  boundaries,  and  strips  them  of  20 
their  fanciful  pretensions.  Hence  the  history  of  religious  and 
poetical  enthusiasm  is  much  the  same ;  and  both  have  received 
a  sensible  shock  from  the  progress  of  experimental  philosophy 
It  is  the  undefined  and  uncommon  that  gives  birth  and  scope  to 
the  imagination :  we  can  only  fancy  what  we  do  not  know.  As 
in  looking  into  the  mazes  of  a  tangled  wood  we  fill  them  with 
what  shapes  we  please,  with  ravenous  beasts,  with  caverns  vast, 
and  drear  enchantments,  so  in  our  ignorance  of  the  world  about 
us,  we  make  gods  or  devils  of  the  first  object  we  see,  and  set 
no  bounds  to  the  wilful  suggestions  of  our  hopes  and  fears. 

"  And  visions,  as  poetic  eyes  avow,  —-^ 

Hang  on  each  leaf  and  cling  to  every  bough." 

There  can  never  be  another  Jacob's  Dream.    Since  that  time,  the 
heavens  have  gone  farther  off,  and  grown  astronomical.    They 


46  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

have  become  averse  to  the  imagination,  nor  will  they  return  to 
us  on  the  squares  of  the  distances,  or  on  Doctor  Chalmers's 
Discourses.  Rembrandt's  picture  brings  the  matter  nearer  to 
us.  —  It  is  not  only  the  progress  of  mechanical  knowledge,  but 

5  the  necessary  advances  of  civilization  that  are  unfavourable  to 
the  spirit  of  poetry.  We  not  only  stand  in  less  awe  of  the  pre- 
ternatural world,  but  we  can  calculate  more  surely,  and  look 
with  more  indifference,  upon  the  regular  routine  of  this.  The 
heroes  of  the  fabulous  ages  rid  the  world  of  monsters  and  giants. 

lo  At  present  we  are  less  exposed  to  the  vicissitudes  of  good  or 
evil,  to  the  incursions  of  wild  beasts  or  "  bandit  fierce,"  or  to 
the  unmitigated  fury  of  the  elements.  The  time  has  been  that 
"  our  fell  of  hair  would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse  and  stir  as  life 
were  in  it."    But  the  police  spoils  all ;  and  we  now  hardly  so 

1 5  much  as  dream  of  a  midnight  murder.  Macbeth  is  only  tolerated 
in  this  country  for  the  sake  of  the  music ;  and  in  the  United 
States  of  America,  where  the  philosophical  principles  of  gov- 
ernment are  carried  still  farther  in  theory  and  practice,  we  find 
that  the  Beggar's  Opera  is  hooted  from  the  stage.    Society,  by 

2o  degrees,  is  constructed  into  a  machine  that  carries  us  safely  and 
insipidly  from  one  end  of  life  to  the  other,  in  a  very  comfortable 
prose  style. 

"  Obscurity  her  curtain  round  them  drew, 
And  siren  Sloth  a  dull  quietus  sung." 

25  The  remarks  which  have  been  here  made,  would,  in  some  meas- 
ure, lead  to  a  solution  of  the  question  of  the  comparative  merits 
of  painting  and  poetry.  I  do  not  mean  to  give  any  preference, 
but  it  should  seem  that  the  argument  which  has  been  sometimes 
set  up,  that  painting  must  affect  the  imagination  more  strongly, 

30  because  it  represents  the  image  more  distinctly,  is  not  well 
founded.  We  may  assume  without  much  temerity,  that  poetry 
is  more  poetical  than  painting.  When  artists  or  connoisseurs 
talk  on  stilts  about  the  poetry  of  painting,  they  shew  that 
they  know  little  about  poetry,  and  have  little  love  for  the  art. 


ON   POETRY  IN  GENERAL  47 

Painting  gives  the  object  itself ;  poetry  what  it  implies.  Painting 
embodies  what  a  thing  contains  in  itself ;  poetry  suggests  what 
exists  out  of  it,  in  any  manner  connected  with  it.  But  this  last 
is  the  proper  province  of  the  imagination.  Again,  as  it  relates  to 
passion,  painting  gives  the  event,  poetry  the  progress  of  events  :  5 
but  it  is  during  the  progress,  in  the  interval  of  expectation  and 
suspense,  while  our  hopes  and  fears  are  strained  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  breathless  agony,  that  the  pinch  of  the  interest  lies. 

"  Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 
And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is  10 

Like  a  phantasma  or  a  hideous  dream. 
The  mortal  instruments  are  then  in  council ; 
And  the  state  of  man,  like  to  a  little  kingdom, 
Suffers  then  the  nature  of  an  insurrection." 

But  by  the  time  that  the  picture  is  painted,  all  is  over.  Faces  15 
are  the  best  part  of  a  picture ;  but  even  faces  are  not  what  we 
chiefly  remember  in  what  interests  us  most.  But  it  may  be  asked 
then.  Is  there  anything  better  than  Claude  Lorraine's  landscapes, 
than  Titian's  portraits,  than  Raphael's  cartoons,  or  the  Greek 
statues  ?  Of  the  two  first  I  shall  say  nothing,  as  they  are  evi-  20 
dently  picturesque,  rather  than  imaginative.  Raphael's  cartoons 
are  certainly  the  finest  comments  that  ever  were  made  on  the 
Scriptures.  Would  their  effect  be  the  same  if  we  were  not  ac- 
quainted with  the  text  ?  But  the  New  Testament  existed  before 
the  cartoons.  There  is  one  subject  of  which  there  is  no  cartoon,  25 
Christ  washing  the  feet  of  the  disciples  the  night  before  his  death. 
But  that  chapter  does  not  need  a  commentary !  It  is  for  want 
of  some  such  resting-place  for  the  imagination  that  the  Greek 
statues  are  little  else  than  specious  forms.  They  are  marble  to 
the  touch  and  to  the  heart.  They  have  not  an  informing  principle  30 

within  them  :  „ In  outward  show 

Elaborate,  of  inward  less  exact." 

In  their  faultless  excellence  they  appear  sufficient  to  themselves. 
By  their  beauty  they  are  raised  above  the  frailties  of  passion  or  35 


48  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

suffering.  By  their  beauty  they  are  deified.  But  they  .are  not 
objects  of  religious  faith  to  us,  and  their  forms  are  a  reproach 
to  common  humanity.  They  seem  to  have  no  sympathy  with 
us,  and  not  to  want  our  admiration. 
5  Poetry  in  its  matter  and  form  is  natural  imagery  or  feeling, 
combined  with  passion  and  fancy.  In  its  mode  of  conveyance, 
it  combines  the  ordinary  use  of  language  with  musical  expres- 
sion. There  is  a  question  of  long  standing,  in  what  the  essence 
of  poetry  consists,  or  what  it  is  that  determines  why  one  set  of 
lo  ideas  should  be  expressed  in  prose,  another  in  verse.  Milton 
has  told  us  his  idea  of  poetry  in  a  single  line  — 

"  Thoughts  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers." 

As  there  are  certain  sounds  that  excite  certain  movements, 
15  and  the  song  and  dance  go  together,  so  there  are,  no  doubt, 
certain  thoughts  that  lead  to  certain  tones  of  voice,  or  modula- 
tions of  sound,  and  change  "  the  words  of  Mercury  into  the  songs 
of  Apollo."  There  is  a  striking  instance  of  this  adaptation  of  the 
movement  of  sound  and  rhythm  to  the  subject,  in  Spenser's  de- 
20  scription  of  the  Satyrs  accompanying  Una  to  the  cave  of  Sylvanus. 

"So  from  the  ground  she  fearless  doth  arise 
And  walketh  forth  without  suspect  of  crime. 
They,  all  as  glad  as  birds  of  joyous  prime, 

Thence  lead  her  forth,  about  her  dancing  round, 
25  Shouting  and  singing  all  a  shepherd's  rhyme  ; 

And  with  green  branches  strewing  all  the  ground, 
Do  worship  her  as  queen  with  olive  garland  crown'd. 

And  all  the  way  their  merry  pipes  they  sound, 
That  all  the  woods  and  doubled  echoes  ring; 
30  And  with  their  horned  feet  do  wear  the  ground, 

Leaping  like  wanton  kids  in  pleasant  spring; 
So  towards  old  Sylvanus  they  her  bring, 
Who  with  the  noise  awaked,  cometh  out." 

Faery  Queen,  b.  i.  c.  vi. 

On  the  contrary,  there  is  nothing  either  musical  or  natural  in 
35  the  ordinary  construction  of  language.    It  is  a  thing  altogether 


ON   POETRY   IN  GENERAL  49 

arbitrary  and  conventional.    Neither  in  the  sounds  themselves, 
which  are  the  voluntary  signs  of  certain  ideas,  nor  in  their  gram- 
matical arrangements  in  common  speech,  is  there  any  principle 
of  natural  imitation,  or  correspondence  to  the  individual  ideas, 
or  to  the  tone  of  feeling  with  which  they  are  conveyed  to  5 
others.     The  jerks,   the  breaks,   the  inequalities,   and    harsh- 
nesses of  prose,  are  fatal  to  the  flow  of  a  poetical  imagina- 
tion, as  a  jolting  road  or  a  stumbling  horse  disturbs  the  reverie 
of  an  absent  man.    But  poetry  makes  these  odds  all  even.    It 
is  the  music  of  language,  answering  to  the  music  of  the  mind,  10 
untying  as  it  were  "  the  secret  soul  of  harmony."    Wherever 
any  object   takes  such   a  hold  of   the  mind  as   to  make  us 
dwell  upon  it,  and  brood  over  it,  melting  the  heart  in  tender- 
ness, or  kindling  it  to  a  sentiment  of  enthusiasm ;  —  wherever 
a  movement  of  imagination  or  passion  is  impressed  on   the  15 
mind,  by  which  it  seeks  to  prolong  and  repeat  the  emotion, 
to  bring  all  other  objects    into  accord   with  it,   and   to  give 
the  same  movement  of  harmony,   sustained   and  continuous, 
or  gradually  varied  according  to  the  occasion,  to  the  sounds 
that  express  it — ^this  is  poetry.    The  musical  in  sound  is  the  20 
sustained  and  continuous ;   the  musical  in  thought  is  the  sus- 
tained and  continuous  also.   There  is  a  near  connection  between 
music  and  deep-rooted  passion.    Mad  people  sing.    As  often  as 
articulation  passes  naturally  into  intonation,  there  poetry  be- 
gins.   Where  one  idea  gives  a  tone  and  colour  to  others,  where  25 
one  feeling  melts  others  into  it,  there  can  be  no  reason  why  the 
same  principle  should  not  be  extended  to  the  sounds  by  which 
the  voice  utters  these  emotions  of  the  soul,  and  blends  syllables 
and  lines  into  each  other.    It  is  to  supply  the  inherent  defect  of 
harmony  in  the  customary  mechanism  of  language,  to  make  the  30 
sound  an  echo  to  the  sense,  when  the  sense  becomes  a  sort  of 
echo  to  itself  —  to  mingle  the  tide  of  verse,  "  the  golden  cadences 
of  poetry,"  with  the  tide  of  feeling,  flowing  and  murmuring  as 
it  flows  —  in  short,  to  take  the  language  of  the  imagination  from 


50  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

off  the  ground,  and  enable  it  to  spread  its  wings  where  it  may 
indulge  its  own  impulses  — 

"  Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 
Through  the  azure  deep  of  air  "  — 

5  without  being  stopped,  or  fretted,  or  diverted  with  the  abrupt- 
nesses and  petty  obstacles,  and  discordant  flats  and  sharps  of 
prose,  that  poetry  was  invented.  It  is  to  common  language, 
what  springs  are  to  a  carriage,  or  wings  to  feet.  In  ordinary 
speech  we  arrive  at  a  certain  harmony  by  the  modulations  of 

ID  the  voice :  in  poetry  the  same  thing  is  done  systematically  by  a 
regular  collocation  of  syllables.  It  has  been  well  observed,  that 
every  one  who  declaims  warmly,  or  grows  intent  upon  a  subject, 
rises  into  a  sort  of  blank  verse  or  measured  prose.  The  mer- 
chant, as  described  in  Chaucer,  went  on  his  way  "  sounding  al- 

15  ways  the  increase  of  his  winning."  Every  prose-writer  has  more 
or  less  of  rhythmical  adaptation,  except  poets,  who,  when  deprived 
of  the  regular  mechanism  of  verse,  seem  to  have  no  principle  of 
modulation  left  in  their  writings. 

An  excuse  might  be  made  for  rhyme  in  the  same  manner.    It 

20  is  but  fair  that  the  ear  should  linger  on  the  sounds  that  delight 
it,  or  avail  itself  of  the  same  brilliant  coincidence  and  unexpected 
recurrence  of  syllables,  that  have  been  displayed  in  the  invention 
and  collocation  of  images.  It  is  allowed  that  rhyme  assists  the 
memory ;  and  a  man  of  wit  and  shrewdness  has  been  heard  to 

25  say,  that  the  only  four  good  lines  of  poetry  are  the  well-known 
ones  which  tell  the  number  of  days  in  the  months  of  the  year. 
"  Thirty  days  hath  September,"  &c. 

But  if  the  jingle  of  names  assists  the  memory,  may  it  not  also 
quicken  the  fancy  ?  and  there  are  other  things  worth  having  at 
30  our  finger's  ends,  besides  the  contents  of  the  almanac—  Pope's 
versification  is  tiresome,  from  its  excessive  sweetness  and  uni- 
formity. Shakspeare's  blank  verse  is  the  perfection  of  dramatic 
dialogue. 


ON  POETRY  IN  GENERAL  5  I 

All  is  not  poetry  that  passes  for  such :  nor  does  verse  make 
the  whole  difference  between  poetry  and  prose.  The  Iliad  does 
not  cease  to  be  poetry  in  a  literal  translation ;  and  Addison's 
Campaign  has  been  very  properly  denominated  a  Gazette  in 
rhyme.  Common  prose  differs  from  poetry,  as  treating  for  the  5 
most  part  either  of  such  trite,  familiar,  and  irksome  matters  of 
fact,  as  convey  no  extraordinary  impulse  to  the  imagination,  or 
else  of  such  difficult  and  laborious  processes  of  the  understand- 
ing, as  do  not  admit  of  the  wayward  or  violent  movements 
either  of  the  imagination  or  the  passions.  10 

I  will  mention  three  works  which  come  as  near  to  poetry  as 
possible  without  absolutely  being  so,  namely,  the  Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress, Robinson  Crusoe,  and  the  Tales  of  Boccaccio.  Chaucer 
and  Dryden  have  translated  some  of  the  last  into  English 
rhyme,  but  the  essence  and  the  power  of  poetry  was  there  be-  15 
fore.  That  which  lifts  the  spirit  above  the  earth,  which  draws 
the  soul  out  of  itself  with  indescribable  longings,  is  poetry  in 
kind,  and  generally  fit  to  become  so  in  name,  by  being  "  married 
to  immortal  verse."  If  it  is  of  the  essence  of  poetry  to  strike 
and  fix  the  imagination,  whether  we  will  or  no,  to  make  the  eye  20 
of  childhood  glisten  with  the  starting  tear,  to  be  never  thought 
of  afterwards  with  indifference,  John  Bunyan  and  Daniel  Defoe 
may  be  permitted  to  pass  for  poets  in  their  way.  The  mix- 
ture of  fancy  and  reality  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  was  never 
equalled  in  any  allegory.  His  pilgrims  walk  above  the  earth,  25 
and  yet  are  on  it.  What  zeal,  what  beauty,  what  truth  of  fiction  ! 
What  deep  feeling  in  the  description  of  Christian's  swimming 
across  the  water  at  last,  and  in  the  picture  of  the  Shining  Ones 
within  the  gates,  with  wings  at  their  backs  and  garlands  on  their 
heads,  who  are  to  wipe  all  tears  from  his  eyes  !  The  writer's  30 
genius,  though  not  "  dipped  in  dews  of  Castalie,"  was  baptised 
with  the  Holy  Spirit  and  with  fire.  The  prints  in  this  book  are 
no  small  part  of  it.  If  the  confinement  of  Philoctetes  in  the 
island  of  Lemnos  was  a  subject  for  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the 


52  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

Greek  tragedies,  what  shall  we  say  to  Robinson  Crusoe  in  his  ? 
Take  the  speech  of  the  Greek  hero  on  leaving  his  cave,  beautiful 
as  it  is,  and  compare  it  with  the  reflections  of  the  English  ad- 
venturer in  his  solitary  place  of  confinement.  The  thoughts  of 
5  home,  and  of  all  from  which  he  is  for  ever  cut  off,  swell  and 
press  against  his  bosom,  as  the  heaving  ocean  rolls  its  ceaseless 
tide  against  the  rocky  shore,  and  the  very  beatings  of  his  heart 
become  audible  in  the  eternal  silence  that  surrounds  him.  Thus 
he  says, 

10  "As  I  walked  about,  either  in  my  hunting,  or  for  viewing  the  country, 
the  anguish  of  my  soul  at  my  condition  would  break  out  upon  me  on  a 
sudden,  and  my  very  heart  would  die  within  me  to  think  of  the  woods, 
the  mountains,  the  deserts  I  was  in ;  and  how  I  was  a  prisoner,  locked 
up  with  the  eternal  bars  and  bolts  of  the  ocean,  in  an  uninhabited  wil- 

15  derness,  without  redemption.  In  the  midst  of  the  greatest  composures 
of  my  mind,  this  would  break  out  upon  me  like  a  storm,  and  make  me 
wring  my  hands,  and  weep  like  a  child.  Sometimes  it  would  take  me  in 
the  middle  of  my  work,  and  I  would  immediately  sit  down  and  sigh,  and 
look  upon  the  ground  for  an  hour  or  two  together,  and  this  was  still 

20  worse  to  me,  for  if  I  could  burst  into  tears  or  vent  myself  in  words,  it 
would  go  off,  and  the  grief  having  exhausted  itself  would  abate."  P.  50. 

The  story  of  his  adventures  would  not  make  a  poem  like  the 
Odyssey,  it  is  true ;  but  the  relator  had  the  true  genius  of  a 
poet.    It  has  been  made  a  question  whether  Richardson's  ro- 

25  mances  are  poetry ;  and  the  answer  perhaps  is,  that  they  are 
not  poetry,  because  they  are  not  romance.  The  interest  is 
worked  up  to  an  inconceivable  height ;  but  it  is  by  an  infinite 
number  of  little  things,  by  incessant  labour  and  calls  upon  the 
attention,  by  a  repetition  of  blows  that  have  no  rebound  in  them. 

30  The  sympathy  excited  is  not  a  voluntary  contribution,  but  a  tax. 
Nothing  is  unforced  and  spontaneous.  There  is  a  want  of  elas- 
ticity and  motion.  The  story  does  not  "  give  an  echo  to  the  seat 
where  love  is  throned."  The  heart  does  not  answer  of  itself  like 
a  chord  in  music.    The  fancy  does  not  run  on  before  the  writer 

35  with  breathless  expectation,  but  is  dragged  along  with  an  infinite 
number  of  pins  and  wheels,  like  those  with  which  the  Lilliputians 


ON   POETRY  IN  GENERAL  53 

dragged  Gulliver  pinioned  to  the  royal  palace.  —  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  is  a  coxcomb.  What  sort  of  a  figure  would  he  cut 
translated  into  an  epic  poem  by  the  side  of  Achilles  ?  Clarissa, 
the  divine  Clarissa,  is  too  interesting  by  half.  She  is  interesting 
in  her  rufifles,  in  her  gloves,  her  samplers,  her  aunts  and  uncles  s 
—  she  is  interesting  in  all  that  is  uninteresting.  Such  things, 
however  intensely  they  may  be  brought  home  to  us,  are  not 
conductors  to  the  imagination.  There  is  infinite  truth  and  feeling 
in  Richardson  ;  but  it  is  extracted  from  a  caput  mortuiwi  of 
circumstances :  it  does  not  evaporate  of  itself.  His  poetical  lo 
genius  is  like  Ariel  confined  in  a  pine-tree,  and  requires  an  artifi- 
cial process  to  let  it  out.    Shakespeare  says  — 

"  Our  poesy  is  as  a  gum, 

Which  issues  whence  't  is  nourished,  our  gentle  flame 

Provokes  itself,  and  like  the  current  flies  1 5 

Each  bound  it  chafes."  ^ 

I  shall  conclude  this  general  account  with  some  remarks  on 
four  of  the  principal  works  of  poetry  in  the  world,  at  different 
periods  of  history  —  Homer,  the  Bible,  Dante,  and  let  me  add 
Ossian.  In  Homer,  the  principle  of  action  or  life  is  predominant;  20 
in  the  Bible,  the  principle  of  faith  and  the  idea  of  Providence; 
Dante  is  a  personification  of  blind  will ;  and  in  Ossian  we  see 
the  decay  of  life,  and  the  lag-end  of  the  world.  Homer's  poetry 
is  the  heroic :  it  is  full  of  life  and  action  ;  it  is  bright  as  the 
day,  strong  as  a  river.  In  the  vigour  of  his  intellect,  he  grapples  25 
with  all  the  objects  of  nature,  and  enters  into  all  the  relations  of 

1  Burke's  writings  are  not  poetry,  notwithstanding  the  vividness  of  the  fancy, 
because  the  subject  matter  is  abstruse  and  dry,  not  natural,  but  artificial.  The 
difference  between  poetry  and  eloquence  is,  that  the  one  is  the  eloquence  of  the 
imagination,  and  the  other  of  the  understanding.  Eloquence  tries  to  persuade 
the  will,  and  convince  the  reason  :  poetry  produces  its  effect  by  instantaneous 
sympathy.  Nothing  is  a  subject  for  poetry  that  admits  of  a  dispute.  Poets  are 
in  general  bad  prose-writers,  because  their  images,  though  fine  in  themselves,  are 
not  to  the  purpose,  and  do  not  carry  on  the  argument.  The  French  poetry  wants 
the  forms  of  the  imagination.  It  is  didactic  more  than  dramatic.  And  some  of 
our  own  poetry  which  has  been  most  admired,  is  only  poetry  in  the  rhyme,  and 
in  the  studied  use  of  poetic  diction. 


54  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

social  life.  He  saw  many  countries,  and  the  manners  of  many 
men ;  and  he  has  brought  them  all  together  in  his  poem.  He 
describes  his  heroes  going  to  battle  with  a  prodigality  of  life, 
arising  from  an  exuberance  of  animal  spirits :  we  see  them  be- 
5  fore  us,  their  number,  and  their  order  of  battle,  poured  out  upon 
the  plain  "  all  plumed  like  ostriches,  like  eagles  newly  bathed, 
wanton  as  goats,  wild  as  young  bulls,  youthful  as  May,  and 
gorgeous  as  the  sun  at  midsummer,"  covered  with  glittering 
armour,  with  dust  and  blood ;   while  the  gods  quaff  their  nectar 

lo  in  golden  cups,  or  mingle  in  the  fray ;  and  the  old  men  assem- 
bled on  the  walls  of  Troy  rise  up  with  reverence  as  Helen 
passes  by  them.  The  multitude  of  things  in  Homer  is  wonder- 
ful ;  their  splendour,  their  truth,  their  force,  and  variety.  His 
poetry  is,  like  his  religion,  the  poetry  of  number  and  form :  he 

15  describes  the  bodies  as  well  as  the  souls  of  men. 

The  poetry  of  the  Bible  is  that  of  imagination  and  of  faith : 
it  is  abstract  and  disembodied  :  it  is  not  the  poetry  of  form,  but 
of  power ;  not  of  multitude,  but  of  immensity.  It  does  not  di- 
vide into  many,  but  aggrandizes  into  one.   Its  ideas  of  nature  are 

20  like  its  ideas  of  God.  It  is  not  the  poetry  of  social  life,  but  of 
solitude :  each  man  seems  alone  in  the  world,  with  the  original 
forms  of  nature,  the  rocks,  the  earth,  and  the  sky.  It  is  not  the 
poetry  of  action  or  heroic  enterprise,  but  of  faith  in  a  supreme 
Providence,  and  resignation  to  the  power  that  governs  the  uni- 

25  verse.  As  the  idea  of  God  was  removed  farther  from  humanity, 
and  a  scattered  polytheism,  it  became  more  profound  and  in- 
tense, as  it  became  more  universal,  for  the  Infinite  is  present  to 
everything :  "  If  we  fly  into  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth, 
it  is  there  also  ;    if  we  turn  to  the  east  or  the  west,  we  cannot 

30  escape  from  it."  Man  is  thus  aggrandised  in  the  image  of  his 
Maker.  The  history  of  the  patriarchs  is  of  this  kind ;  they  are 
founders  of  a  chosen  race  of  people,  the  inheritors  of  the  earth ; 
they  exist  in  tlie  generations  which  are  to  come  after  them. 
'^J'heir   poetry,    like    their    religious    creed,    is    vast,   unformed, 


ON   POETRY  IN  GENERAL  55 

obscure  and  infinite ;  a  vision  is  upon  it  —  an  invisible  hand  is 
suspended  over  it.  The  spirit  of  the  Christian  religion  consists  in 
the  glory  hereafter  to  be  revealed  ;  but  in  the  Hebrew  dispensa- 
tion, Providence  took  an  immediate  share  in  the  affairs  of  this  life. 
Jacob's  dream  arose  out  of  this  intimate  communion  between  5 
heaven  and  earth  :  it  was  this  that  let  down,  in  the  sight  of  the 
youthful  patriarch,  a  golden  ladder  from  the  sky  to  the  earth,  with 
angels  ascending  and  descending  upon  it,  and  shed  a  light  upon 
the  lonely  place,  which  can  never  pass  away.  The  story  of  Ruth, 
again,  is  as  if  all  the  depth  of  natural  affection  in  the  human  race  10 
was  involved  in  her  breast.  There  are  descriptions  in  the  book  of 
Job  more  prodigal  of  imagery,  more  intense  in  passion,  than  any 
thing  in  Homer,  as  that  of  the  state  of  his  prosperity,  and  of  the 
vision  that  came  upon  him  by  night.  The  metaphors  in  the  Old 
Testament  are  more  boldly  figurative.  Things  were  collected  more  1 5 
into  masses,  and  gave  a  greater  momentuDi  to  the  imagination. 

Dante  was  the  father  of  modern  poetry,  and  he  may  therefore 
claim  a  place  in  this  connection.  His  poem  is  the  first  great 
step  from  Gothic  darkness  and  barbarism ;  and  the  struggle  of 
thought  in  it  to  burst  the  thraldom  in  which  the  human  mind  had  20 
been  so  long  held,  is  felt  in  every  page.  He  stood  bewildered, 
not  appalled,  on  that  dark  shore  which  separates  the  ancient 
and  the  modern  world ;  and  saw  the  glories  of  antiquity  dawn- 
ing through  the  abyss  of  time,  while  revelation  opened  its  pas- 
sage to  the  other  world.  He  was  lost  in  wonder  at  what  had  25 
been  done  before  him,  and  he  dared  to  emulate  it.  Dante  seems 
to  have  been  indebted  to  the  Bible  for  the  gloomy  tone  of  his 
mind,  as  well  as  for  the  prophetic  fury  which  exalts  and  kindles 
his  poetry ;  but  he  is  utterly  unlike  Homer.  His  genius  is  not 
a  sparkling  flame,  but  the  sullen  heat  of  a  furnace.  He  is  power,  30 
passion,  self-will  personified.  In  all  that  relates  to  the  descrip- 
tive or  fanciful  part  of  poetry,  he  bears  no  comparison  to  many 
who  had  gone  before,  or  who  have  come  after  him  ;  but  there 
is  a  gloomy  abstraction  in  his  conceptions,  which  lies  like  a  dead 


• 


56  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

weight  upon  the  mind ;  a  benumbing  stupor,  a  breathless  awe, 
from  the  intensity  of  the  impression ;  a  terrible  obscurity,  like 
that  which  oppresses  us  in  dreams  ;  an  identity  of  interest,  which 
moulds  every  object  to  its  own  purposes,  and  clothes  all  things 
5  with  the  passions  and  imaginations  of  the  human  soul, —  that 
make  amends  for  all  other  deficiencies.  The  immediate  objects 
he  presents  to  the  mind,  are  not  much  in  themselves,  they  want 
grandeur,  beauty,  and  order ;  but  they  become  everything  by 
the  force  of  the  character  he  impresses  upon  them.    His  mind 

lo  lends  its  own  power  to  the  objects  which  it  contemplates,  instead 
of  borrowing  it  from  them.  He  takes  advantage  even  of  the 
nakedness  and  dreary  vacuity  of  his  subject.  His  imagination 
peoples  the  shades  of  death,  and  broods  over  the  silent  air.  He 
is  the  severest  of  all  writers,  the  most  hard  and  impenetrable, 

1 5  the  most  opposite  to  the  flowery  and  glittering ;  who  relies  most 
on  his  own  power,  and  the  sense  of  it  in  others,  and  who  leaves 
most  room  to  the  imagination  of  his  readers.  Dante's  only  en- 
deavour is  to  interest ;  and  he  interests  by  exciting  our  sympathy 
with  the  emotion  by  which  he  is  himself  possessed.    He  does 

2o  not  place  before  us  the  objects  by  which  that  emotion  has  been 
created  ;  but  he  seizes  on  the  attention,  by  shewing  us  the  effect 
they  produce  on  his  feelings ;  and  his  poetry  accordingly  gives 
the  same  thrilling  and  overwhelming  sensation,  which  is  caught  by 
gazing  on  the  face  of  a  person  who  has  seen  some  object  of  horror. 

25  The  improbability  of  the  events,  the  abruptness  and  monotony 
in  the  Inferno,  are  excessive :  but  the  interest  never  flags,  from 
the  continued  earnestness  of  the  author's  mind.  Dante's  great 
power  is  in  combining  internal  feelings  with  external  objects. 
Thus  the  gate  of  hell,  on  which  that  withering  inscription  is 

30  written,  seems  to  be  endowed  with  speech  and  consciousness, 
and  to  utter  its  dread  warning,  not  without  a  sense  of  mortal 
woes.  This  author  habitually  unites  the  absolutely  local  and  in- 
dividual with  the  greatest  wildness  and  mysticism.  In  the  midst 
of  the  obscure  and  shadowy  regions  of  the  lower  world,  a  tomb 


ON  POETRY  IN  (GENERAL  57 

suddenly  rises  up  with  the  inscription,  "  I  am  the  tomb  of  Pope 
Anastasius  the  Sixth:"  and  half  the  personages  whom  he  has 
crowded  into  the  Inferno  are  his  own  acquaintance.  All  this, 
perhaps,  tends  to  heighten  the  effect  by  the  bold  intermixture  of 
realities,  and  by  an  appeal,  as  it  were,  to  the  individual  knowl-  5 
edge  and  experience  of  the  reader.  He  affords  few  subjects  for 
picture.  There  is,  indeed,  one  gigantic  one,  that  of  Count  Ugo- 
lino,  of  which  Michael  Angelo  made  a  bas-relief,  and  which  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  ought  not  to  have  painted. 

Another  writer  whom  I  shall  mention  last,  and  whom  I  can-  10 
not  persuade  myself  to  think  a  mere  modern  in  the  groundwork, 
is  Ossian.    He  is  a  feeling  and  a  name  that  can  never  be  de- 
stroyed in  the  minds  of  his  readers.    As  Homer  is  the  first  vig- 
our and  lustihed,  Ossian  is  the  decay  and  old  age  of  poetr)\   He 
lives  only  in  the  recollection  and  regret  of  the  past.    There  is  1 5 
one  impression  which  he  conveys  more  entirely  than  all  other 
poets,  namely,  the  sense  of  privation,  the  loss  of  all  things,  of 
friends,  of  good  name,  of  country  —  he  is  even  without  God  in 
the  world.    He  converses  only  with  the  spirits  of  the  departed  ; 
with  the  motionless  and  silent  clouds.    The  cold  moonlight  sheds  20 
its  faint  lustre  on  his  head;  the  fox  peeps  out  of  the  ruined 
tower ;  the  thisde  waves  its  beard  to  the  wandering  gale ;  and 
the  strings  of  his  harp  seem,  as  the  hand  of  age,  as  the  tale  of 
other  times,  passes  over  them,  to  sigh  and  rusde  like  the  dry  reeds 
in  the  winter's  wind  !    The  feeling  of  cheerless  desolation,  of  the  25 
loss  of  the  pith  and  sap  of  existence,  of  the  annihilation  of  the 
substance,  and  the  clinging  to  the  shadow  of  all  things  as  in  a 
mock-embrace,  is  here  perfect.    In  this  way,  the  lamentation  of 
Selma  for  the  loss  of  Salgar  is  the  finest  of  all.    If  it  were  in- 
deed possible  to  shew  that  this  writer  was  nothing,  it  would  only  30 
be  another  instance  of  mutability,  another  blank  made,  another 
void  left  in  the  heart,  another  confirmation  of  that  feeling  which 
makes  him  so  often  complain,  "  Roll  on,  ye  dark  brown  years, 
ye  bring  no  joy  on  your  wing  to  Ossian  1 " 


ON  ELIZABETHAN  LITERATURE 

The  age  of  Elizabeth  was  distinguished,  beyond,  perhaps,  any 
other  in  our  history,  by  a  number  of  great  men,  famous  in  dif- 
ferent ways,  and  whose  names  have  come  down  to  us  with  un- 
blemished honours ;  statesmen,  warriors,  divines,  scholars,  poets, 
5  and  philosophers ;  Raleigh,  Drake,  Coke,  Hooker,  and  higher 
and  more  sounding  still,  and  still  more  frequent  in  our  mouths, 
Shakespear,  Spenser,  Sidney,  Bacon,  Jonson,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  men  whom  fame  has  eternised  in  her  long  and  lasting 
scroll,  and  who,  by  their  words  and  acts,  were  benefactors  of 

lo  their  country,  and  ornaments  of  human  nature.  Their  attain- 
ments of  different  kinds  bore  the  same  general  stamp,  and  it  was 
sterling :  what  they  did,  had  the  mark  of  their  age  and  country 
upon  it.  Perhaps  the  genius  of  Great  Britain  (if  I  may  so  speak 
without  offence  or  flattery),  never  shone  out  fuller  or  brighter,  or 

1 5  looked  more  like  itself,  than  at  this  period.  Our  writers  and  great 
men  had  something  in  them  that  savoured  of  the  soil  from  which 
they  grew  :  they  were  not  French,  they  were  not  Dutch,  or  Ger- 
man, or  Greek,  or  Latin  ;  they  were  truly  English.  They  did  not 
look  out  of  themselves  to  see  what  they  should  be  ;  they  sought 

20  for  truth  and  nature,  and  found  it  in  themselves.  There  was  no 
tinsel,  and  but  little  art;  they  were  not  the  spoilt  children  of  affec- 
tation and  refinement,  but  a  bold,  vigorous,  independent  race  of 
thinkers,  with  prodigious  strength  and  energy,  with  none  but 
natural  grace,  and  heartfelt  unobtrusive  delicacy.  They  were  not 

25  at  all  sophisticated.  The  mind  of  their  country  was  great  in  them, 
and  it  prevailed.  With  their  learning  and  unexampled  acquire- 
ment, they  did  not  forget  that  they  were  men :  with  all  their  en- 
deavours after  excellence,  they  did  not  lay  aside  the  strong  original 

58 


ON  ELIZABETHAN  LITERATURE  59 

bent  and  character  of  their  minds.    What  they  performed  was 
chiefly  nature's  handy-work  ;  and  time  has  claimed  it  for  his  own. 
—  To  these,  however,  might  be  added  others  not  less  learned, 
nor  with  a  scarce  less  happy  vein,  but  less  fortunate  in  the  event, 
who,  though  as  renowned  in  their  day,  have  sunk  into  ''  mere  5 
oblivion,"  and  of  whf)m  the  only  record  (but  that  the  noblest) 
is  to  be  found  in  their  works.    Their  works  and  their  names, 
"  poor,  poor  dumb  names,"  are  all  that  remains  of  such  men  as 
Webster,  Deckar,  Marston,  Marlow,  Chapman,  Heywood,  Mid- 
dleton,  and  Rowley  !    "  How  lov'd,  how  honour'd  once,  avails  10 
them  not :  "  though  they  were  the  friends  and  fellow-labourers  of 
Shakespear,  sharing  his  fame  and  fortunes  with  him,  the  rivals  of 
Jonson,  and  the  masters  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  well-sung 
woes  !   They  went  out  one  by  one  unnoticed,  like  evening  lights  ; 
or  were  swallowed  up  in  the  headlong  torrent  of  puritanic  zeal  1 5 
which   succeeded,   and  swept  away  everything  in  its  unsparing 
course,  throwing  up  the  wrecks  of  taste  and  genius  at  random, 
and  at  long  fitful  intervals,  amidst  the  painted  gewgaws  and 
foreign  frippery  of  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  and  from  which  we 
are  only  now  recovering  the  scattered  fragments  and  broken  20 
images  to  erect  a  temple  to  true  Fame  I    How  long  before  it 
will  be  completed  ? 

If  I  can  do  anything  to  rescue  some  of  these  writers  from 
hopeless  obscurity,  and  to  do  them  right,  without  prejudice  to 
well-deserved  reputation,  I  shall  have  succeeded  in  what  I  chiefly  25 
propose.  I  shall  not  attempt,  indeed,  to  adjust  the  spelling  or 
restore  the  pointing,  as  if  the  genius  of  poetry  lay  hid  in  errors 
of  the  press,  but  leaving  these  weightier  matters  of  criticism  to 
those  who  are  more  able  and  willing  to  bear  the  burden,  try  to 
bring  out  their  real  beauties  to  the  eager  sight,  "  draw  the  cur-  30 
tain  of  Time,  and  show  the  picture  of  Genius,"  restraining  my 
own  admiration  within  reasonable  bounds  I 

There  is  not  a  lower  ambition,  a  poorer  way  of  thought,  than 
that  which  would  confine  all  excellence,  or  arrogate  its   final 


6o  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

accomplishment  to  the  present  or  modem  times.  We  ordinarily 
speak  and  think  of  those  who  had  the  misfortune  to  write  or 
live  before  us,  as  labouring  under  very  singular  privations  and 
disadvantages  in  not  having  the  benefit  of  those  improvements 
5  which  we  have  made,  as  buried  in  the  grossest  ignorance,  or 
the  slaves  "  of  poring  pedantry ;  "  and  we  make  a  cheap  and 
infallible  estimate  of  their  progress  in  civilization  upon  a  gradu- 
ated scale  of  perfectibility,  calculated  from  the  meridian  of  our 
own  times.    If  we  have  pretty  well  got  rid  of  the  narrow  bigotry 

lo  that  would  limit  all  sense  or  virtue  to  our  own  country,  and 
have  fraternized,  like  true  cosmopolites,  with  our  neighbours 
and  contemporaries,  we  have  made  our  self-love  amends  by  let- 
ting the  generation  we  live  in  engross  nearly  all  our  admiration 
and  by  pronouncing  a  sweeping  sentence  of  barbarism  and  igno- 

15  ranee  on  our  ancestry  backwards,  from  the  commencement  (as 
near  as  can  be)  of  the  nineteenth,  or  the  latter  end  of  the  eight- 
eenth century.  From  thence  we  date  a  new  era,  the  dawn  of 
our  own  intellect  and  that  of  the  world,  like  "  the  sacred  influ- 
ence of  light "  glimmering  on  the  confines  of  Chaos  and  old 

20  night ;  new  manners  rise,  and  all  the  cumbrous  "  pomp  of  elder 
days "  vanishes,  and  is  lost  in  worse  than  Gothic  darkness. 
Pavilioned  in  the  glittering  pride  of  our  superficial  accomplish- 
ments and  upstart  pretensions,  we  fancy  that  everything  beyond 
that  magic  circle  is  prejudice  and  error ;  and  all,  before  the  pres- 

25  ent  enlightened  period,  but  a  dull  and  useless  blank  in  the  great 
map  of  time.  We  are  so  dazzled  with  the  gloss  and  novelty  of 
modern  discoveries,  that  we  cannot  take  into  our  mind's  eye  the 
vast  expanse,  the  lengthened  perspective  of  human  intellect,  and 
a  cloud  hangs  over  and  conceals  its  loftiest  monuments,  if  they 

30  are  removed  to  a  little  distance  from  us — the  cloud  of  our  own 
vanity  and  short-sightedness.  The  modern  sciolist  stultifies  all 
understanding  but  his  own,  and  that  which  he  conceives  like  his 
own.  We  think,  in  this  age  of  reason  and  consummation  of 
philosophy,  because  we  knew  nothing  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago, 


ON  ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE  6 1 

and  began  to  think  then  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives,  that  the 
rest  of  mankind  were  in  the  same  predicament,  and  never  knew 
anything  till  we  did ;  that  the  world  had  grown  old  in  sloth  and 
ignorance,  had  dreamt  out  its  long  minority  of  five  thousand 
years  in  a  dozing  state,  and  that  it  first  began  to  wake  out  of  5 
sleep,  to  rouse  itself,  and  look  about  it,  startled  by  the  light  of 
our  unexpected  discoveries,  and  the  noise  we  made  about  them. 
Strange  error  of  our  infatuated  self-love !  Because  the  clothes 
we  remember  to  have  seen  worn  when  we  were  children,  are 
now  out  of  fashion,  and  our  grandmothers  were  then  old  women,  10 
we  conceive  with  magnanimous  continuity  of  reasoning,  that  it 
must  have  been  much  worse  three  hundred  years  before,  and 
that  grace,  youth,  and  beauty  are  things  of  modern  date  —  as 
if  nature  had  ever  been  old,  or  the  sun  had  first  shone  on  our 
folly  and  presumption.  Because,  in  a  word,  the  last  generation,  15 
when  tottering  off  the  stage,  were  not  so  active,  so  sprightly, 
and  so  promising  as  we  were,  we  begin  to  imagine,  that  people 
formerly  must  have  crawled  about  in  a  feeble,  torpid  state,  like 
flies  in  winter,  in  a  sort  of  dim  twilight  of  the  understanding ; 
"  nor  can  we  think  what  thoughts  they  could  conceive,"  in  the  20 
absence  of  all  those  topics  that  so  agreeably  enliven  and  diver- 
sify our  conversation  and  literature,  mistaking  the  imperfection  of 
our  knowledge  for  the  defect  of  their  organs,  as  if  it  was  neces- 
sary for  us  to  have  a  register  and  certificate  of  their  thoughts, 
or  as  if,  because  they  did  not  see  with  our  eyes,  hear  with  our  25 
ears,  and  understand  with  our  understandings,  they  could  hear, 
see,  and  understand  nothing.  A  falser  inference  could  not  be 
drawn,  nor  one  more  contrary  to  the  maxims  and  cautions  of  a 
wise  humanity.  "  Think,"  says  Shakespear,  the  prompter  of 
good  and  true  feelings,  "  there  's  livers  out  of  Britain."  So  there  30 
have  been  thinkers,  and  great  and  sound  ones,  before  our  time. 
They  had  the  same  capacities  that  we  have,  sometimes  greater 
motives  for  their  exertion,  and,  for  the  most  part,  the  same  sub- 
ject-matter to  work  upon.    What  we  learn  from  nature,  we  may 


62  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

hope  to  do  as  well  as  they ;  what  we  learn  from  them,  we  may 
in  general  expect  to  do  worse.  —  What  is,  I  think,  as  likely  as  any- 
thing to  cure  us  of  this  overweening  admiration  of  the  present, 
and  unmingled  contempt  for  past  times,  is  the  looking  at  the 
5  finest  old  pictures ;  at  Raphael's  heads,  at  Titian's  faces,  at 
Claude's  landscapes.  We  have  there  the  evidence  of  the  senses, 
without  the  alterations  of  opinion  or  disguise  of  language.  We 
there  see  the  blood  circulate  through  the  veins  (long  before  it 
was  known  that  it  did  so),  the  same  red  and  white  "  by  nature's 

lo  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on,"  the  same  thoughts  pass- 
ing through  the  mind  and  seated  on  the  lips,  the  same  blue  sky, 
and  glittering  sunny  vales,  "  where  Pan,  knit  with  the  Graces 
and  the  Hours  in  dance,  leads  on  the  eternal  spring."  And  we 
begin  to  feel,  that  nature  and  the  mind  of  man  are  not  a  thing 

15  of  yesterday,  as  we  had  been  led  to  suppose ;  and  that  "  there 
are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamt  of  in  our 
philosophy."  —  Or  grant  that  we  improve,  in  some  respects,  in  a 
uniformly  progressive  ratio,  and  build.  Babel-high,  on  the  foun- 
dation of  other  men's  knowledge,  as  in  matters  of  science  and 

20  and  speculative  inquiry,  where  by  going  often  over  the  same  gen- 
eral ground,  certain  general  conclusions  have  been  arrived  at, 
and  in  the  number  of  persons  reasoning  on  a  given  subject,  truth 
has  at  last  been  hit  upon  and  long-established  error  exploded ; 
yet  this  does  not  apply  to  cases  of  individual  power  and  knowl- 

25  edge,  to  a  million  of  things  beside,  in  which  we  are  still  to  seek 
as  much  as  ever,  and  in  which  we  can  only  hope  to  find,  by  go- 
ing to  the  fountain-head  of  thought  and  experience.  We  are 
quite  wrong  in  supposing  (as  we  are  apt  to  do),  that  we  can 
plead  an  exclusive  title  to  wit  and  wisdom,  to  taste  and  genius, 

30  as  the  net  produce  and  clear  reversion  of  the  age  we  live  in, 
and  that  all  we  have  to  do  to  be  great,  is  to  despise  those  who 
have  gone  before  us  as  nothing. 

Or  even  if   we    admit   a    saving   clause    in    this    sweeping 
proscription,   and   do   not    make    the   rule    absolute,    the   very 


ON  ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE  63 

nature  of  the  exceptions  shows  the  spirit  in  which  they  are  made. 
We  single  out  one  or  two  striking  instances,  say  Shakespear  or 
Lord  Bacon,  which  we  would  fain  treat  as  prodigies,  and  as  a 
marked  contrast  to  the  rudeness  and  barbarism  that  surrounded 
them.  These  we  delight  to  dwell  upon  and  magnify  ;  the  praise  5 
and  wonder  we  heap  upon  their  shrines,  are  at  the  expense  of 
the  time  in  which  they  lived,  and  would  leave  it  poor  indeed. 
We  make  them  out  something  more  than  human,  "  matchless, 
divine,  what  we  will,"  so  to  make  them  no  rule  for  their  age, 
and  no  infringement  of  the  abstract  claim  to  superiority  which  10 
we  set  up.  Instead  of  letting  them  reflect  any  lustre,  or  add  any 
credit  to  the  period  of  history  to  which  they  rightfully  belong, 
we  only  make  use  of  their  example  to  insult  and  degrade  it  still 
more  beneath  our  own  level. 

It  is  the  present  fashion  to  speak  with  veneration  of  old  15 
English  literature  ;  but  the  homage  we  pay  to  it  is  more  akin  to 
the  rites  of  superstition,  than  the  worship  of  true  religion.    Our 
faith  is  doubtful ;  our  love  cold ;  our  knowledge  little  or  none. 
We  now  and  then  repeat  the  names  of  some  of  the  old  writers 
by  rote  ;  but  we  are  shy  of  looking  into  their  works.    Though  20 
we  seem  disposed  to  think  highly  of  them,  and  to  give  them 
every  credit  for  a  masculine  and  original  vein  of  thought,  as  a 
matter  of  literary  courtesy  and  enlargement  of  taste,  we  are 
afraid  of  coming  to  the  proof,  as  too  great  a  trial  of  our  can- 
dour and  patience.    We  regard  the  enthusiastic  admiration  of  25 
these  obsolete  authors,  or  a  desire  to  make  proselytes  to  a  be- 
lief in  their  extraordinary  merits,  as  an  amiable  weakness,  a 
pleasing  delusion ;  and  prepare  to  listen  to  some  favourite  pas- 
sage, that  may  be  referred  to  in  support  of  this  singular  taste, 
with  an  incredulous  smile ;  and  are  in  no  small  pain  for  the  re-  30 
suit  of  the  hazardous  experiment ;  feeling  much  the  same  awk- 
ward condescending  disposition  to  patronise  these  first  crude 
attempts  at  poetry  and  lispings  of  the  Muse,  as  when  a  fond 
parent  brings  forward  a  bashful  child  to  make  a  display  of  its  wit 


64  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

or  learning.  We  hope  the  best,  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter, 
but  are  sadly  afraid  the  thing  cannot  answer.  —  Dr.  Johnson  said 
of  these  writers  generally,  that  "  they  were  sought  after  because 
they  were  scarce,  and  would  not  have  been  scarce,  had  they  been 
5  much  esteemed."  His  decision  is  neither  true  history  nor  sound 
criticism.   They  were  esteemed,  and  they  deserved  to  be  so. 

One  cause  that  might  be  pointed  out  here,  as  having  contrib- 
uted to  the  long-continued  neglect  of  our  earlier  writers,  lies  in 
the  very  nature  of  our  academic  institutions,  which  unavoidably 

lo  neutralizes  a  taste  for  the  productions  of  native  genius,  estranges 
the  mind  from  the  history  of  our  own  literature,  and  makes  it  in 
each  successive  age  like  a  book  sealed.  The  Greek  and  Roman 
classics  are  a  sort  of  privileged  text-books,  the  standing  order 
of  the  day,  in  a  university  education,  and  leave  little  leisure  for 

15  a  competent  acquaintance  with,  or  due  admiration  of,  a  whole 
host  of  able  writers  of  our  own,  who  are  suffered  to  moulder  in 
obscurity  on  the  shelves  of  our  libraries,  with  a  decent  reserva- 
tion of  one  or  two  top-names,  that  are  cried  up  for  form's  sake, 
and  to  save  the  national  character.   Thus  we  keep  a  few  of  these 

20  always  ready  in  capitals,  and  strike  off  the  rest,  to  prevent  the 
tendency  to  a  superfluous  population  in  the  republic  of  letters ; 
in  other  words,  to  prevent  the  writers  from  becoming  more 
numerous  than  the  readers.  The  ancients  are  become  effete  in 
this  respect,  they  no  longer  increase  and  multiply ;  or  if  they 

25  have  imitators  among  us,  no  one  is  expected  to  read,  and  still 
less  to  admire  them.  It  is  not  possible  that  the  learned  pro- 
fessors and  the  reading  public  should  clash  in  this  way,  or 
necessary  for  them  to  use  any  precautions  against  each  other. 
But  it  is  not  the  same  with  the  living  languages,  where  there 

30  is  danger  of  being  overwhelmed  by  the  crowd  of  competitors; 
and  pedantry  has  combined  with  ignorance  to  cancel  their  un- 
satisfied claims. 

We  affect  to  wonder  at  Shakespear  and  one  or  two  more  of 
that  period,  as  solitary  instances  upon  record  ;  whereas  it  is  our 


ON  ELIZABETHAN  LITERATURE  65 

own  dearth  of  information  that  makes  the  waste ;  for  there  is 
no  time  more  populous  of  intellect,  or  more  prolific  of  intellectual 
wealth,  than  the  one  we  are  speaking  of.  Shakespear  did  not 
look  upon  himself  in  this  light,  as  a  sort  of  monster  of  poetical 
genius,  or  on  his  contemporaries  as  "  less  than  the  smallest  5 
dwarfs,"  when  he  speaks  with  true,  not  false  modesty,  of 
himself  and  them,  and  of  his  wayward  thoughts,  "  desiring  this 
man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope."  We  fancy  that  there  were 
no  such  men,  that  could  either  add  to  or  take  any  thing  away 
from  him,  but  such  there  were.  He  indeed  overlooks  and  10 
commands  the  admiration  of  posterity,  but  he  does  it  from  the 
tablelajid  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  He  towered  above  his 
fellows,  "in  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent;"  but  he  was 
one  of  a  race  of  giants,  the  tallest,  the  strongest,  the  most 
graceful,  and  beautiful  of  them ;  but  it  was  a  common  and  a  1 5 
noble  brood.  He  was  not  something  sacred  and  aloof  from  the 
vulgar  herd  of  men,  but  shook  hands  with  nature  and  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  time,  and  is  distinguished  from  his  immediate 
contemporaries,  not  in  kind,  but  in  degree  and  greater  variety 
of  excellence.  He  did  not  form  a  class  or  species  by  himself,  20 
but  belonged  to  a  class  or  species.  His  age  was  necessary  to 
him ;  nor  could  he  have  been  wrenched  from  his  place  in  the- 
edifice  of  which  he  was  so  conspicuous  a  part,  without  equal 
injury  to  himself  and  it.  Mr.  Wordsworth  says  of  Milton,  that 
"  his  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart."  This  cannot  be  25 
said  with  any  propriety  of  Shakespear,  who  certainly  moved  in 
a  constellation  of  bright  luminaries,  and  "  drew  after  him  a 
third  part  of  the  heavens."  If  we  allow,  for  argument's  sake 
(or  for  truth's,  which  is  better),  that  he  was  in  himself  equal  to 
all  his  competitors  put  together ;  yet  there  was  more  dramatic  30 
excellence  in  that  age  than  in  the  whole  of  the  period  that  has 
elapsed  since.  If  his  contemporaries,  with  their  united  strength, 
would  hardly  make  one  Shakespear,  certain  it  is  that  all  his  suc- 
cessors would  not  make  half  a  one.    With  the  exception  of  a 


66  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

single  writer,  Otway,  and  of  a  single  play  of  his  (Venice  Pre- 
served), there  is  nobody  in  tragedy  and  dramatic  poetry  (I  do 
not  here  speak  of  comedy)  to  be  compared  to  the  great  men  of 
the  age  of  Shakespear,  and  immediately  after.  They  are  a  mighty 
5  phalanx  of  kindred  spirits  closing  him  round,  moving  in  the  same 
orbit,  and  impelled  by  the  same  causes  in  their  whirling  and 
eccentric  career.   They  had  the  same  faults  and  the  same  excel- 
lences;    the  same  strength  and  depth  and  richness,   the  same 
truth  of  character,  passion,  imagination,  thought  and  language, 
lo  thrown,  heaped,  massed  together  without  careful  polishing  or 
exact  method,  but  poured  out  in  unconcerned  profusion  from 
the  lap  of  nature  and  genius  in  boundless  and  unrivalled  mag- 
nificence.   The  sweetness  of  Deckar,  the  thought  of  Marston, 
the  gravity  of  Chapman,  the  grace  of  Fletcher  and  his  young- 
1 5  eyed  wit,  Jonson's  learned  sock,  the  flowing  vein  of  Middleton, 
Heywood's  ease,  the  pathos  of  Webster,  and  Marlow's  deep 
designs,  add  a  double  lustre  to  the  sweetness,  thought,  gravity, 
grace,  wit,  artless  nature,  copiousness,  ease,  pathos,  and  sublime 
conceptions  of  Shakespear's  Muse.    They  are  indeed  the  scale 
20  by  which  we  earn  best  ascend  to  the  true  knowledge  and  love  of 
him.    Our  admiration  of  them  does  not  lessen  our  relish  for  him  : 
•but,  on  the  contrary,  increases  and  confirms  it.  —  For  such  an 
extraordinary  combination  and  development  of  fancy  and  genius 
many  causes  may  be  assigned  ;  and  we  may  seek  for  the  chief  of 
25  them  in  religion,  in  politics,  in  the  circumstances  of  the  time,  the 
recent  diffusion  of  letters,  in  local  situation,  and  in  the  character 
of  the  men  who  adorned  that  period,  and  availed  themselves  so 
nobly  of  the  advantages  placed  within  their  reach. 

I  shall  here  attempt  to  give  a  general  sketch  of  these  causes, 
30  and  of  the  manner  in  which  they  operated  to  mould  and  stamp 
the  poetry  of  the  country  at  the  period  of  which  I  have  to  treat ; 
independently  of  incidental  and  fortuitous  causes,  for  which 
there  is  no  accounting,  but  which,  after  all,  have  often  the 
greatest  share  in  determining  the  most  important  results. 


ON  ELIZABETHAN  LITERATURE  6/ 

The  first  cause  1  shall  mention,  as  contributing  to  this  general 
effect,  was  the  Reformation,  which  had  just  then  taken  place. 
This  event  gave  a  mighty  impulse  and  increased  activity  to 
thought  and  inquiry,  and  agitated  the  inert  mass  of  accumu- 
lated prejudices  throughout  Europe.  The  effect  of  the  concus-  5 
sion  was  general ;  but  the  shock  was  greatest  in  this  country. 
It  toppled  down  the  full-grown,  intolerable  abuses  of  centuries  at 
a  blow  ;  heaved  the  ground  from  under  the  feet  of  bigoted  faith 
and  slavish  obedience ;  and  the  roar  and  dashing  of  opinions, 
loosened  from  their  accustomed  hold,  might  be  heard  like  the  10 
noise  of  an  angry  sea,  and  has  never  yet  subsided.  Germany 
first  broke  the  spell  of  misbegotten  fear,  and  gave  the  watch- 
word ;  but  England  joined  the  shout,  and  echoed  it  back  with 
her  island  voice,  from  her  thousand  cliffs  and  craggy  shores,  in  a 
longer  and  a  louder  strain,  \^'ith  that  ciy,  the  genius  of  Great  1 5 
Britain  rose,  and  threw  down  the  gauntlet  to  the  nations.  There 
was  a  mighty  fermentation  :  the  waters  were  out ;  public  opinion 
was  in  a  state  of  projection.  Liberty  was  held  out  to  all  to  think 
and  speak  the  truth.  Men's  brains  were  busy ;  their  spirits  stir- 
ring ;  their  hearts  full ;  and  their  hands  not  idle.  Their  eyes  were  20 
opened  to  expect  the  greatest  things,  and  their  ears  burned  with 
curiosity  and  zeal  to  know  the  truth,  that  the  truth  might  make 
them  free.  The  death-blow  which  had  been  struck  at  scarlet 
vice  and  bloated  hypocrisy,  loosened  their  tongues,  and  made  the 
talismans  and  love-tokens  of  Popish  superstition,  with  which  she  25 
had  beguiled  her  followers  and  committed  abominations  with  the 
people,  fall  harmless  from  their  necks. 

The  translation  of  the  Bible  was  the  chief  engine  in  the  sfreat 
work.  It  threw  open,  by  a  secret  spring,  the  rich  treasures  of 
religion  and  morality,  which  had  been  there  locked  up  as  in  a  30 
shrine.  It  revealed  the  visions  of  the  prophets,  and  conveyed 
the  lessons  of  inspired  teachers  (such  they  were  thought)  to  the 
meanest  of  the  people.  It  gave  them  a  common  interest  in  the 
common  cause.  Their  hearts  burnt  within  them  as  they  read.  It 


68  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

gave  a  vnnd  to  the  people,  by  giving  them  common  subjects  of 
thought  and  feeling.  It  cemented  their  union  of  character  and 
sentiment :  it  created  endless  diversity  and  collision  of  opinion. 
They  found  objects  to  employ  their  faculties,  and  a  motive  in 
5  the  magnitude  of  the  consequences  attached  to  them,  to  exert 
the  utmost  eagerness  in  the  pursuit  of  truth,  and  the  most  daring 
intrepidity  in  maintaining  it.  Religious  controversy  sharpens  the 
understanding  by  the  subtlety  and  remoteness  of  the  topics  it  dis- 
cusses, and  braces  the  will  by  their  infinite  importance.   We  per- 

lo  ceive  in  the  history  of  this  period  a  nervous  masculine  intellect. 
No  levity,  no  feebleness,  no  indifference  ;  or  if  there  were,  it  is 
a  relaxation  from  the  intense  activity  which  gives  a  tone  to  its 
general  character.  But  there  is  a  gravity  approaching  to  piety ; 
a  seriousness  of  impression,  a  conscientious  severity  of  argu- 

15  ment,  an  habitual  fervour  and  enthusiasm  in  their  mode  of 
handling  almost  every  subject.  The  debates  of  the  schoolmen 
were  sharp  and  subtle  enough  ;  but  they  wanted  interest  and 
grandeur,  and  were  besides  confined  to  a  few :  they  did  not 
affect  the  general  mass  of  the  community.    But  the  Bible  was 

20  thrown  open  to  all  ranks  and  conditions  "  to  run  and  read," 
with  its  wonderful  table  of  contents  from  Genesis  to  the  Reve- 
lations. Every  village  in  England  would  present  the  scene  so 
well  described  in  Burns's  Cotter's  Saturday  Night.  I  cannot 
think  that  all  this  variety  and  weight  of  knowledge  could  be 

25  thrown  in  all  at  once  upon  the  mind  of  a  people,  and  not  make 
some  impression  upon  it,  the  traces  of  which  might  be  discerned 
in  the  manners  and  literature  of  the  age.  Eor  to  leave  more 
disputable  points,  and  take  only  the  historical  parts  of  the  Old 
Testament,  or  the  moral  sentiments  of  the  New,  there  is  nothing 

30  like  them  in  the  power  of  exciting  awe  and  admiration,  or  of 
riveting  sympathy.  We  see  what  Milton  has  made  of  the  account 
of  the  Creation,  from  the  manner  in  which  he  has  treated  it,  im- 
bued and  impregnated  with  the  spirit  of  the  time  of  which  we 
speak.    Or  what  is  there  equal  (in  that  romantic  interest  and 


ON  ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE  69 

patriarchal  simplicity  which  goes  to  the  heart  of  a  country,  and 
rouses  it,  as  it  were,  from  its  lair  in  wastes  and  wildernesses) 
to  the  story  of  Joseph  and  his  Brethren,  of  Rachael  and  Laban, 
of  Jacob's  Dream,  of  Ruth  and  Boaz,  the  descriptions  in  the 
book  of  Job,  the  deliverance  of  the  Jews  out  of  Egypt,  or  the  5 
account  of  their  captivity  and  return  from  Babylon  ?  There  is 
in  all  these  parts  of  the  Scripture,  and  numberless  more  of  the 
same  kind,  to  pass  over  the  Orphic  hymns  of  David,  the  pro- 
phetic denunciations  of  Isaiah,  or  the  gorgeous  visions  of  Ezekiel, 
an  originality,  a  vastness  of  conception,  a  depth  and  tenderness  10 
of  feeling,  and  a  touching  simplicity  in  the  mode  of  narration, 
which  he  who  does  not  feel,  need  be  made  of  no  "  penetrable 
stuff."  There  is  something  in  the  character  of  Christ  too 
(leaving  religious  faith  quite  out  of  the  question)  of  more 
sweetness  and  majest)',  and  more  likely  to  work  a  change  in  15 
the  mind  of  man,  by  the  contemplation  of  its  idea  alone,  than 
any  to  be  found  in  history,  whether  actual  or  feigned.  This 
character  is  that  of  a  sublime  humanity,  such  as  was  never  seen 
on  earth  before,  nor  since.  This  shone  manifestly  both  in  his 
words  and  actions.  We  see  it  in  his  washing  the  disciples'  feet  20 
the  night  before  his  death,  that  unspeakable  instance  of  humil- 
ity and  love,  above  all  art,  all  meanness,  and  all  pride,  and  in  tlic 
leave  he  took  of  them  on  that  occasion,  "  My  peace  I  give 
unto  you,  that  peace  which  the  world  cannot  give,  give  I  unto 
you ; "  and  in  his  last  commandment,  that  ''  they  should  love  25 
one  another."  Who  can  read  the  account  of  his  behaviour  on 
the  cross,  when  turning  to  his  mother  he  said,  "  Woman,  be- 
hold thy  son,"  and  to  the  disciple  John,  "  Behold  thy  mother," 
and  "  from  that  hour  that  disciple  took  her  to  his  own  home," 
without  having  his  heart  smote  within  Iiim  !  We  see  it  in  his  30 
treatment  of  the  woman  taken  in  adultery,  and  in  his  excuse  for 
the  woman  who  poured  precious  ointment  on  his  garment  as  an 
offering  of  devotion  and  love,  which  is  here  all  in  all.  His  religion 
was  the  religion  of  the  heart.    We  see  it  in  his  discourse  with 


70  SELECTIONS   FROM  HAZLITT 

the  disciples  as  they  walked  together  towards  Emmaus,  when 
their  hearts  burned  within  them ;  in  his  sermon  from  the 
Mount,  in  his  parable  of  the  good  Samaritan,  and  in  that  of 
the  Prodigal  Son  —  in  every  act  and  word  of  his  life,  a  grace,  a 
5  mildness,  a  dignity  and  love,  a  patience  and  wisdom  worthy  of 
the  Son  of  God.  His  whole  life  and  being  were  imbued,  steeped 
in  this  word,  charity  ;  it  was  the  spring,  the  well-head  from  which 
every  thought  and  feeling  gushed  into  act ;  and  it  was  this  that 
breathed  a  mild  glory  from  his  face  in  that  last  agony  upon  the 

lo  cross,"  when  the  meek  Saviour  bowed  his  head  and  died,"  pray- 
ing for  his  enemies.  He  was  the  first  true  teacher  of  morality ; 
for  he  alone  conceived  the  idea  of  a  pure  humanity.  He  re- 
deemed man  from  the  worship  of  that  idol,  self,  and  instructed 
him  by  precept  and  example  to  love  his  neighbour  as  himself, 

15  to  forgive  our  enemies,  to  do  good  to  those  that  curse  us  and 
despitefully  use  us.  He  taught  the  love  of  good  for  the  sake 
of  good,  without  regard  to  personal  or  sinister  views,  and  made 
the  affections  of  the  heart  the  sole  seat  of  morality,  instead  of 
the  pride  of  the  understanding  or  the  sternness  of  the  will. 

20  In  answering  the  question,  "  Who  is  our  neighbour  ?  "  as  one 
who  stands  in  need  of  our  assistance,  and  whose  wounds  we 
can  bind  up,  he  has  done  more  to  humanize  the  thoughts  and 
tame  the  unruly  passions,  than  all  who  have  tried  to  reform  and 
benefit  mankind.   The  very  idea  of  abstract  benevolence,  of  the 

25  desire  to  do  good  because  another  wants  our  services,  and  of 
regarding  the  human  race  as  one  family,  the  offspring  of  one 
common  parent,  is  hardly  to  be  found  in  any  other  code  or 
system.  It  was  "  to  the  Jews  a  stumbling  block,  and  to  the 
Greeks  foolishness."    The  Greeks  and  Romans  never  thought 

30  of  considering  others,  but  as  they  were  Greeks  or  Romans,  as 
they  were  bound  to  them  by  certain  positive  ties,  or,  on  the 
other  hand,  as  separated  from  them  by  fiercer  antipathies. 
Their  virtues  were  the  virtues  of  political  machines,  their  vices 
were  the  vices  of  demons,  ready  to  inflict  or  to  endure  pain 


ON   ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE  yi 

with  obdurate  and  remorseless  inflexibility  of  purpose.  But  in 
the  Christian  religion,  "  we  perceive  a  softness  coming  over  the 
heart  of  a  nation,  and  the  iron  scales  that  fence  and  harden  it, 
melt  and  drop  off."  It  becomes  malleable,  capable  of  pity,  of 
forgiveness,  of  relaxing  in  its  claims,  and  remitting  its  power.  5 
We  strike  it,  and  it  does  not  hurt  us  :  it  is  not  steel  or  marble, 
but  flesh  and  blood,  clay  tempered  with  tears,  and  "  soft  as 
sinews  of  the  new-born  babe."  The  gospel  was  first  preached 
to  the  poor,  for  it  consulted  their  wants  and  interests,  not  its 
own  pride  and  arrogance.  It  first  promulgated  the  equality  10 
of  mankind  in  the  community  of  duties  and  benefits.  It  de- 
nounced the  iniquities  of  the  chief  Priests  and  Pharisees,  and 
declared  itself  at  variance  with  principalities  and  powers,  for 
it  sympathizes  not  with  the  oppressor,  but  the  oppressed.  It 
first  abolished  slavery,  for  it  did  not  consider  the  power  of  15 
the  will  to  inflict  injury,  as  clothing  it  with  a  right  to  do  so.  Its 
law  is  good,  not  power.  It  at  the  same  time  tended  to  wean 
the  mind  from  the  grossness  of  sense,  and  a  particle  of  its  divine 
flame  was  lent  to  brighten  and  purify  the  lamp  of  love ! 

There  have  been  persons  who,  being  sceptics  as  to  the  divine  20 
mission  of  Christ,  having  taken  an  unaccountable  prejudice  to 
his  doctrines,  and  have  been  disposed  to  deny  the  merit  of  his 
character ;  but  this  was  not  the  feeling  of  the  great  men  in  the 
age  of  Elizabeth  (whatever  might  be  their  belief)  one  of  whom 
says  of  him,  with  a  boldness  equal  to  its  piety :  25 

"  The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  sufferer; 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed." 


This  was  old  honest  Deckar,  and  the  lines  ought  to  embalm 
his  memory  to  every  one  who  has  a  sense  either  of  religion,  or 
philosophy,  or  humanity,  or  true  genius.  Nor  can  I  help  think- 
ing, that  we  may  discern  the  traces  of  the  influence  exerted  by 
religious  faith  in  the  spirit  of  the  poetry  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth, 


j^ 


72  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

in  the  means  of  exciting  terror  and  pity,  in  the  delineation  of 
the  passions  of  grief,  remorse,  love,  sympathy,  the  sense  of 
shame,  in  the  fond  desires,  the  longings  after  immortality,  in 
the  heaven  of  hope  and  the  abyss  of  despair  it  lays  open  to  us.^ 
5  The  literature  of  this  age,  then,  I  would  say,  was  strongly  in- 
fluenced (among  other  causes),  first  by  the  spirit  of  Christianity, 
and  secondly  by  the  spirit  of  Protestantism. 

The  effects  of  the  Reformation  on  politics  and  philosophy 
may  be  seen  in  the  writings  and  history  of  the  next  and  of  the 

10  following  ages.  They  are  still  at  work,  and  will  continue  to  be 
so.  The  effects  on  the  poetry  of  the  time  were  chiefly  confined 
to  the  moulding  of  the  character,  and  giving  a  powerful  impulse 
to  the  intellect  of  the  country.  The  immediate  use  or  application 
that  was  made  of  religion  to  subjects  of  imagination  and  fiction 

15  was  not  (from  an  obvious  ground  of  separation)  so  direct  or 
frequent,  as  that  which  was  made  of  the  classical  and  romantic 
literature. 

For  much  about  the  same  time,  the  rich  and  fascinating  stores 
of  the  Greek  and  Roman  mythology,  and  those  of  the  romantic 

20  poetry  of  Spain  and  Italy,  were  eagerly  explored  by  the  curious, 
and  thrown  open  in  translations  to  the  admiring  gaze  of  the 
vulgar.  This  last  circumstance  could  hardly  have  afforded  so 
much  advantage  to  the  poets  of  that  day,  who  were  themselves, 
in  fact,  the  translators,  as  it  shews  the  general  curiosity  and  in- 

25  creasing  interest  in  such  subjects  as  a  prevailing  feature  of  the 
times.  There  were  translations  of  Tasso  by  Fairfax,  and  of 
Ariosto  by  Harrington,  of  Homer  and  Hesiod  by  Chapman, 
and  of  Virgil  long  before,  and  Ovid  soon  after ;  there  was  Sir 
Thomas  North's  translation  of  I'lutarch,  of  which  Shakespear 

30  has  made  such  admirable  use  in  his  Coriolanus  and  Julius 
Caesar;  and  Ken  Jonson's  tragedies  of  Catiline  and  Sejanus 
may   themselves   be   considered   as   almost   literal    translations 

1  In  some  Roman  Catholic  countries,  pictures  in  part  supplied  the  place  of  the 
translation  of  the  Bible:  and  this  dumb  art  arose  in  the  silence  of  the  written  oracles. 


ON  ELIZABETHAN  LITERATURE  73 

into  verse  of  Tacitus,  Sallust,  and  Cicero's  Orations  in  his 
consulsliip.  Boccaccio,  the  divine  Boccaccio,  Petrarch,  Dante, 
the  satirist  Aretine,  Machiavel,  Castiglione,  and  others  were  fa- 
miliar to  our  writers,  and  they  make  occasional  mention  of  some 
few  French  authors,  as  Ronsard  and  Du  Bartas  ;  for  the  French  5 
literature  had  not  at  this  stage  arrived  at  its  Augustan  period, 
and  it  was  the  imitation  of  their  literature  a  century  afterwards, 
when  it  had  arrived  at  its  greatest  height  (itself  copied  from  the 
Greek  and  Latin),  that  enfeebled  and  impoverished  our  own. 
But  of  the  time  that  we  are  considering,  it  might  be  said,  with-  10 
out  much  extravagance,  that  every  breath  that  blew,  that  every 
wave  that  rolled  to  our  shores,  brought  with  it  some  accession 
to  our  knowledge,  which  was  engrafted  on  the  national  genius. 
In  fact,  all  the  disposeable  materials  that  had  been  accumulating 
for  a  long  period  of  time,  either  in  our  own  or  in  foreign  coun-  15 
tries,  were  now  brought  together,  and  required  nothing  more 
than  to  be  wrought  up,  polished,  or  arranged  in  striking  forms, 
for  ornament  and  use.  To  this  every  inducement  prompted, 
the  novelty  of  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  in  many  cases,  the 
emulation  of  foreign  wits  and  of  immortal  works,  the  want  and  20 
the  expectation  of  such  works  among  ourselves,  the  opportunity 
and  encouragement  afforded  for  their  production  by  leisure  and 
affluence ;  and,  above  all,  the  insatiable  desire  of  the  mind  to 
beget  its  own  image,  and  to  construct  out  of  itself,  and  for  the 
delight  and  admiration  of  the  world  and  posterity,  that  excel-  25 
lence  of  which  the  idea  exists  hitherto  only  in  its  own  breast, 
and  the  impression  of  which  it  would  make  as  universal  as  the 
eye  of  heaven,  the  benefit  as  common  as  the  air  we  breathe. 
The  first  impulse  of  genius  is  to  create  what  never  existed  be- 
fore :  the  contemplation  of  that  which  is  so  created  is  sufficient  30 
to  satisfy  the  demands  of  taste  ;  and  it  is  the  habitual  study  and 
imitation  of  the  original  models  that  takes  away  the  power,  and 
even  wish  to  do  the  like.  Taste  limps  after  genius,  and  from 
copying  the  artificial  models  we  lose  sight  of  the  living  principle 


74  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

of  nature.  It  is  the  effort  we  make,  and  the  impulse  we  acquire, 
in  overcoming  the  first  obstacles,  that  projects  us  forward ;  it 
is  the  necessity  for  exertion  that  makes  us  conscious  of  our 
strength ;  but  this  necessity  and  this  impulse  once  removed,  the 
5  tide  of  fancy  and  enthusiasm,  which  is  at  first  a  running  stream, 
soon  settles  and  crusts  into  the  standing  pool  of  dulness,  criti- 
cism, and  viiiii. 

What  also  gave  an  unusual  impetus  to  the  mind  of  man  at 
this  period  was  the  discovery  of  the  New  World,  and  the  reading 

lo  of  voyages  and  travels.  Green  islands  and  golden  sands  seemed 
to  arise,  as  by  enchantment,  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  watery 
waste,  and  invite  the  cupidity  or  wing  the  imagination  of  the 
dreaming  speculator.  Fairyland  was  realized  in  new  and  un- 
known worlds.   "  Fortunate  fields  and  groves  and  flowery  vales, 

15  thrice  happy  isles,"  were  found  floating.  "  like  those  Hesperian 
gardens  famed  of  old,"  beyond  Atlantic  seas,  as  dropped  from 
the  zenith.  The  people,  the  soil,  the  clime,  everything  gave  un- 
limited scope  to  the  curiosity  of  the  traveller  and  reader.  Other 
manners  might  be  said  to  enlarge  the  bounds  of  knowledge,  and 

20  new  mines  of  wealth  were  tumbled  at  our  feet.  It  is  froni  a 
voyage  to  the  Straits  of  Magellan  that  Shakespear  has  taken 
the  hint  of  Prospero's  Enchanted  Island,  and  of  the  savage 
Caliban  with  his  god  Setebos.^  Spenser  seems  to  have  had  the 
same  feeling  in  his  mind  in  the  production  of  his  Faery  Queen, 

25  and  vindicates  his  poetic  fiction  on  this  very  ground  of  analogy. 

"  Right  well  I  wote,  most  mighty  sovereign. 
That  all  this  famous  antique  history 
Of  some  the  abundance  of  an  idle  brain 
Will  judged  be,  and  painted  forgery, 
30  Rather  than  matter  of  just  memory  ; 

Since  none  that  breathcth  living  air,  doth  know 
Where  is  that  happy  land  of  faery 
Which  I  so  much  do  vaunt,  but  nowhere  show, 
But  vouch  antiquities,  which  nobody  can  know. 

1  See  a  Voyage  to  the  Straits  of  Magellan,  159^. 


ON  ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE  75 

But  let  that  man  with  better  sense  avise, 

That  of  the  world  least  part  to  us  is  read : 

And  daily  how  through  hardy  enterprize 

Many  great  regions  are  discovered, 

Which  to  late  age  were  never  mentioned.  5 

Who  ever  heard  of  th'  Indian  Peru  ? 

Or  who  in  venturous  vessel  measured 

The  Amazons'  huge  river,  now  found  true  ? 

Or  fruitfuUest  Virginia  who  did  ever  view  ? 

Yet  all  these  were  when  no  man  did  them  know,  10 

Vet  have  from  wisest  ages  hidden  been  : 
And  later  times  things  more  unknown  shall  show. 
Why  then  should  witless  man  so  much  misween 
That  nothing  is  but  that  which  he  hath  seen  ? 

What  if  within  the  moon's  fair  shining  sphere,  15 

What  if  in  every  other  star  unseen, 
Of  other  worlds  he  happily  should  hear, 
He  wonder  would  much  more  ;   yet  such  to  some  appear." 

Fancy's    air-drawn    pictures   after   history's   waking   dream 
shewed  lilce  clouds  over  mountains :    and  from  the  romance  of  20 
real  life  to  the  idlest  fiction,  the  transition  seemed  easy.    Shake- 
spear,  as  well  as  others  of  his  time,  availed  himself  of  the  old 
Chronicles,  and  of  the  traditions  or  fabulous  inventions  contained 
in  them  in  such  ample  measure,  and  which  had  not  yet  been 
appropriated  to  the  purposes  of  poetry  or  the  drama.   The  stage  25 
was  a  new  thing  ;  and  those  who  had  to  supply  its  demands  laid 
their  hands  upon  whatever  came  within  their  reach  :    they  were 
not  particular  as  to  the  means,  so  that  they  gained  the  end. 
Lear  is  founded  on  an  old  ballad ;   Othello  on  an  Italian  novel ; 
Hamlet  on  a  Danish,  and  Macbeth  on  a  Scotch  tradition :    one  30 
of  which  is  to  be  found  in  Saxo-Grammaticus,  and  the  last  in 
Hollingshed.     The  Ghost-scenes  and  the  Witches  in  each,  are 
authenticated  in  the  old  Gothic  history.    There  was  also  this 
connecting  link  between  the  poetry  of  this  age  and  the  super- 
natural traditions  of  a  former  one,  that  the  belief  in  them  was  35 
still  extant,  and  in  full  force  and  visible  operation  among  the 


76  SELECTIONS   FROM    HAZLITT 

vulgar  (to  say  no  more)  in  the  time  of  our  authors.  The  ap- 
palling and  wild  chimeras  of  superstition  and  ignorance,  "  those 
bodiless  creations  ecstacy  is  very  cunning  in,"  were  inwoven  with 
existing  manners  and  opinions,  and  all  their  effects  on  the  pas- 
5  sions  and  terror  or  pity  might  be  gathered  from  common  and 
actual  observation  —  might  be  discerned  in  the  workings  of  the 
face,  the  expressions  of  the  tongue,  the  writhings  of  a  troubled 
conscience.  "  Your  face,  my  Thane,  is  as  a  book  where  men 
may  read  strange  matters."    Midnight  and  secret  murders  too, 

lo  from  the  imperfect  state  of  the  police,  were  more  common;  and 
the  ferocious  and  brutal  manners  that  would  stamp  the  brow 
of  the  hardened  rufhan  or  hired  assassin,  more  incorrigible 
and  undisguised.  The  portraits  of  Tyrrel  and  Forrest  were,  no 
doubt,  done  from  the  life.    We  find  that  the  ravages  of  the 

15  plague,  the  destructive  rage  of  fire,  the  poisoned  chalice,  lean 
famine,  the  serpent's  mortal  sting,  and  the  fury  of  wild  beasts, 
were  the  common  topics  of  their  poetry,  as  they  were  common 
occurrences  in  more  remote  periods  of  history.  They  were  the 
strong  ingredients  thrown  into  the  cauldron  of  tragedy,  to  make 

20  it  "  thick  and  slab."  Man's  life  was  (as  it  appears  to  me)  more 
full  of  traps  and  pitfalls ;  of  hair-breadth  accidents  by  flood  and 
field ;  more  way-laid  by  sudden  and  startling  evils ;  it  trod  on 
the  brink  of  hope  and  fear ;  stumbled  upon  fate  unawares ; 
while  the  imagination,  close  behind  it,  caught  at  and  clung  to 

25  the  shape  of  danger,  or  "  snatched  a  wild  and  fearful  joy  from 
its  escape."  The  accidents  of  nature  were  less  provided  against ; 
the  excesses  of  the  passions  and  of  lawless  power  were  less 
regulated,  and  produced  more  strange  and  desperate  catastro- 
phes.  The  tales  of  Boccaccio  are  founded  on  the  great  pestilence 

30  of  Florence,  Fletcher  the  poet  died  of  the  plague,  and  Marlow 
was  stabbed  in  a  tavern  quarrel.  The  strict  authority  of  parents, 
the  inequality  of  ranks,  or  the  hereditary  feuds  between  different 
families,  made  more  unhappy  loves  or  matches. 

"  The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  even." 


ON  ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE  yy 

Again,  the  heroic  and  martial  spirit  which  breathes  in  our 
elder  writers,  was  yet  in  considerable  activity  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth.  "  The  age  of  chivalry  was  not  then  quite  gone,  nor 
the  glory  of  Europe  extinguished  for  ever."  Jousts  and  tourna- 
ments were  still  common  with  the  nobility  in  England  and  in  5 
foreign  countries :  Sir  Philip  Sidney  was  particularly  distin- 
guished for  his  proficiency  in  these  exercises  (and  indeed  fell  a 
martyr  to  his  ambition  as  a  soldier)  —  and  the  gentle  Surrey 
was  still  more  famous,  on  the  same  account,  just  before  him. 
It  is  true,  the  general  use  of  firearms  gradually  superseded  the  10 
necessity  of  skill  in  the  sv/ord,  or  bravery  in  the  person :  and 
as  a  symptom  of  the  rapid  degeneracy  in  this  respect,  we  find 
Sir  John  Suckling  soon  after  boasting  of  himself  as  one  — 

"  Who  prized  black  eyes,  and  a  lucky  hit 
At  bowls,  above  all  the  trophies  of  wit."  15 

It  was  comparatively  an  age  of  peace, 

"  Like  strength  reposing  on  his  own  right  arm  ;  " 

but  the  sound  of  civil  combat  might  still  be  heard  in  the  distance, 
the  spear  glittered  to  the  eye  of  memory,  or  the  clashing  of  ar- 
mour struck  on  the  imagination  of  the  ardent  and  the  young.  20 
They  were  borderers  on  the  savage  state,  on  the  times  of  war 
and  bigotry,  though  in  the  lap  of  arts,  of  luxury,  and  knowledge. 
They  stood  on  the  shore  and  saw  the  billows  rolling  after  the 
storm  :   "  they  heard  the  tumult,  and  were  still."    The  manners 
and  out-of-door  amusements  were  more  tinctured  with  a  spirit  -5 
of  adventure  and  romance.    The  war  with  wild  beasts,  &c.,  was 
more  strenuously  kept  up  in  country  sports.     I  do  not  think 
we  could  get  from  sedentary  poets,  who  had  never  mingled  in 
the  vicissitudes,  the  dangers,  or  excitements  of  the  chase,  such 
descriptions  of  hunting  and  other  athletic  games,  as  are  to  be  30 
found  in  Shakespear's  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  or  Fletcher's 
Noble  Kinsmen. 


78  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

With  respect  to  the  good  cheer  and  hospitable  living  of  those 
times,  I  cannot  agree  with  an  ingenious  and  agreeable  writer  of 
the  present  day,  that  it  was  general  or  frequent.  The  very  stress 
laid  upon  certain  holidays  and  festivals,  shews  that  they  did  not 
5  keep  up  the  same  Saturnalian  licence  and  open  house  all  the 
year  round.  They  reserved  themselves  for  great  occasions,  and 
made  the  best  amends  they  could,  for  a  year  of  abstinence  and 
toil  by  a  week  of  merriment  and  convivial  indulgence.  Persons 
in  middle  life  at  this  day,  who  can  afford  a  good  dinner  every 

lo  day,  do  not  look  forward  to  it  as  any  particular  subject  of  exul- 
tation :  the  poor  peasant,  who  can  only  contrive  to  treat  himself 
to  a  joint  of  meat  on  a  Sunday,  considers  it  as  an  event  in  the 
week.  So,  in  the  old  Cambridge  comedy  of  the  Returne  from 
Parnassus,  we  find  this  indignant  description  of  the  progress  of 

15  luxury  in  those  days,  put  into  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  speakers. 

"  Why  is't  not  strange  to  see  a  ragged  clerke, 
Some  stammell  weaver,  or  some  butcher's  sonne, 
That  scrubb'd  a  late  within  a  sleeveless  gowne. 
When  the  commencement,  like  a  morrice  dance, 

20  Hath  put  a  bell  or  two  about  his  legges, 

Created  him  a  sweet  cleane  gentleman : 
How  then  he  'gins  to  follow  fashions. 
He  whose  thin  sire  dwelt  in  a  smokye  roofe, 
Must  take  tobacco,  and  must  wear  a  locke, 

25  His  thirsty  dad  drinkes  in  a  wooden  bowle, 

But  his  sweet  self  is  served  in  silver  plate. 
His  hungry  sire  will  scrape  you  twenty  legges 
For  one  good  Christmas  meal  on  new  year's  day, 
But  his  mawe  must  be  capon  cramm'd  each  day." 

Act  III.    Scene  2 

30  This  does  not  look  as  if  in  those  days  "  it  snowed  of  meat 
and  drink,"  as  a  matter  of  course,  throughout  the  year! — -The 
distinctions  of  dress,  the  badges  of  different  professions,  the  very 
signs  of  the  shops,  which  we  have  set  aside  for  written  inscrip- 
tions over  the  doors,  were,  as  Mr.  Lamb  observes,  a  sort  of 

35  visible  language  to  the  imagination,  and  hints  for  thought.    Like 


ON  ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE  79 

the  costume  of  different  foreign  nations,  they  had  an  immediate 
striking  and  picturesque  effect,  giving  scope  to  the  fancy.  The 
surface  of  society  was  embossed  wjth  hieroglyphics,  and  poetry 
existed  "  in  act  and  complement  extern."  The  poetry  of  former 
times  might  be  directly  taken  from  real  life,  as  our  poetry  is  taken  5 
from  the  poetry  of  former  times.  Finally,  the  face  of  nature, 
which  was  the  same  glorious  object  then  that  it  is  now,  was 
open  to  them  ;  and  coming  first,  they  gathered  her  fairest  flowers 
to  live  for  ever  in  their  verse  :  —  the  movements  of  the  human 
heart  were  not  hid  from  them,  for  they  had  the  same  passions  10 
as  we,  only  less  disguised,  and  less  subject  to  controul.  Deckar 
has  given  an  admirable  description  of  a  mad-house  in  one  of 
his  plays.  But  it  might  be  perhaps  objected,  that  it  was  only  a 
literal  account  taken  from  Bedlam  at  that  time  :  and  it  might  be 
answered,  that  the  old  poets  took  the  same  method  of  describ-  15 
ing  the  passions  and  fancies  of  men  whom  they  met  at  large, 
which  forms  the  point  of  communion  between  us :  for  the  title 
of  the  old  play,  "A  Mad  World,  my  Masters,"  is  hardly  yet  ob- 
solete ;  and  we  are  pretty  much  the  same  Bedlam  still,  perhaps 
a  little  better  managed,  like  the  real  one,  and  with  more  care  20 
and  humanity  shewn  to  the  patients ! 

Lastly,  to  conclude  this  account ;  What  gave  a  unity  and 
common  direction  to  all  these  causes,  was  the  natural  genius 
of  the  country,  which  was  strong  in  these  writers  in  proportion 
to  their  strength.  We  are  a  nation  of  islanders,  and  we  cannot  25 
help  it ;  nor  mend  ourselves  if  we  would.  We  are  something 
in  ourselves,  nothing  when  we  try  to  ape  others.  Music  and 
painting  are  not  our  fofie ;  for  what  we  have  done  in  that  way 
has  been  little,  and  that  borrowed  from  others  with  great  diffi- 
culty. But  we  may  boast  of  our  poets  and  philosophers.  That's  30 
something.  We  have  had  strong  heads  and  sound  hearts  among 
us.  Thrown  on  one  side  of  the  world,  and  left  to  bustle  for  our- 
selves, we  have  fought  out  man)'  a  batde  for  truth  and  freedom. 
That  is  our  natural  style ;  and  it  were  to  be  wished  we  had  in 


8o  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

no  instance  departed  from  it.  Our  situation  has  given  us  a  cer- 
tain cast  of  thought  and  character,  and  our  liberty  has  enabled 
us  to  make  the  most  of  it.  ,We  are  of  a  stiff  clay,  not  moulded 
into  every  fashion,  with  stubborn  joints  not  easily  bent.  We  are 
5  slow  to  think,  and  therefore  impressions  do  not  work  upon  us 
till  they  act  in  masses.  We  are  not  forward  to  express  our  feel- 
ings, and  therefore  they  do  not  come  from  us  till  they  force 
their  way  in  the  most  impetuous  eloquence.  Our  language  is, 
as  it  were,  to  begin  anew,  and  we  make  use  of  the  most  singu- 

10  lar  and  boldest  combinations  to  explain  ourselves.  Our  wit 
comes  from  us,  "  like  birdlime,  brains  and  all."  We  pay  too  little 
attention  to  form  and  method,  leave  our  v»'Orks  in  an  unfinished 
state,  but  still  the  materials  we  work  in  are  solid  and  of  nature's 
mint ;  we  do  not  deal  in  counterfeits.    We  both  under  and  over- 

15  do,  but  we  keep  an  eye  to  the  prominent  features,  the  main 
chance.  We  are  more  for  weight  than  show ;  care  only  about 
what  interests  ourselves,  instead  of  trying  to  impose  upon 
others  by  plausible  appearances,  and  are  obstinate  and  intrac- 
table in  not  conforming  to  common  rules,  by  which  many  arrive 

20  at  their  ends  with  half  the  real  waste  of  thought  and  trouble. 
We  neglect  all  but  the  principal  object,  gather  our  force  to 
make  a  great  blow,  bring  it  down,  and  relapse  into  sluggishness 
and  indifference  again.  Materiam  siiperahat  opus,  cannot  be 
said  of  us.     We  may  be  accused  of  grossness,  but  not  of  flimsi- 

25  ness;  of  extravagance,  but  not  of  affectation;  of  want  of  art  and 
refinement,  but  not  of  a  want  of  truth  and  nature.  Our  litera- 
ture, in  a  word,  is  Gothic  and  grotesque  ;  unequal  and  irregular ; 
not  cast  in  a  previous  mould,  nor  of  one  uniform  texture,  but 
of  great  weight  in  the  whole,  and  of  incomparable  value  in  the 

30  best  parts.  It  aims  at  an  excess  of  beauty  or  power,  hits  or 
misses,  and  is  cither  very  good  indeed,  or  absolutely  good  for 
nothing.  This  character  applies  in  particular  to  our  literature 
in  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  whicli  is  its  best  period,  before  the  in- 
troduction of  a  rage  for  French  rules  and  French  models ;  for 


ON  ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE  8 1 

whatever  may  be  the  value  of  our  own  original  style  of  compo- 
sition, there  can  be  neither  offence  nor  presumption  in  saying, 
that  it  is  at  least  better  than  our  second-hand  imitations  of 
others.  Our  understanding  (such  as  it  is,  and  must  remain  to 
be  good  for  any  thing)  is  not  a  thoroughfare  for  common  places,  5 
smooth  as  the  palm  of  one's  hand,  but  full  of  knotty  points  aijd 
jutting  excrescences,  rough,  uneven,  overgrown  with  brambles ; 
and  I  like  this  aspect  of  the  mind  (as  some  one  said  of  the  coun- 
try), where  nature  keeps  a  good  deal  of  the  soil  in  her  own 
hands.  Perhaps  the  genius  of  our  poetry  has  more  of  Pan  than  10 
of  Apollo  ;  "  but  Pan  is  a  God,  Apollo  is  no  more  1 " 


ON  THE   PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING 

' "  There  is  a  pleasure  in  painting  which  none  but  painters 
know."  In  writing,  you  have  to  contend  with  the  world ;  in 
painting,  you  have  only  to  carry  on  a  friendly  strife  with  Nature. 
You  sit  down  to  your  task,  and  are  happy.  From  the  moment 
5  that  you  take  up  the  pencil,  and  look  Nature  in  the  face,  you 
are  at  peace  with  your  own  heart.  No  angry  passions  rise  to 
disturb  the  silent  progress  of  the  work,  to  shake  the  hand,  or 
dim  the  brow  :  no  irritable  humours  are  set  afloat :  you  have  no 
absurd  opinions  to  combat,  no  point  to  strain,  no  adversary  to 

lo  crush,  no  fool  to  annoy  —  you  are  actuated  by  fear  or  favour  to 
no  man.  There  is  "  no  juggling  here,"  no  sophistry,  no  intrigue, 
no  tampering  with  the  evidence,  no  attempt  to  make  black  white, 
or  white  black :  but  you  resign  yourself  into  the  hands  of  a 
greater  power,  that  of  Nature,  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  and 

15  the  devotion  of  an  enthusiast — "study  with  joy  her  manner, 
and  with  rapture  taste  her  style."  The  mind  is  calm,  and  full  at 
the  same  time.  The  hand  and  eye  are  equally  employed.  In 
tracing  the  commonest  object,  a  plant  or  the  stump  of  a  tree, 
you  learn  something  every  moment.    You  perceive  unexpected 

20  differences,  and  discover  likenesses  where  you  looked  for  no  such 
thing.  You  try  to  set  down  what  you  see  —  find  out  your  error, 
and  correct  it.  You  need  not  play  tricks,  or  purposely  mistake  : 
with  all  your  pains,  you  are  still  far  short  of  the  mark.  Patience 
grows  out  of  the  endless  pursuit,  and  turns  it  into  a  luxury.  A. 

25  streak  in  a  flower,  a  wrinkle  in  a  leaf,  a  tinge  in  a  cloud,  a  stain 
in  an  old  wall  or  ruin  grey,  are  seized  with  avidity  as  the  spo/ia 
opitna  of  this  sort  of  mental  warfare,  and  furnish  out  labour  for 
another  half-day.   The  hours  pass  away  untold,  without  chagrin, 

82 


ON  THE   PLEASURE  OF  J'AINTING  83 

and  without  weariness ;  nor  would  you  ever  wish  to  pass  them 
otherwise.  Innoeence  is  joined  with  industry,  pleasure  with 
business  ;  and  the  mind  is  satisfied,  though  it  is  not  engaged  in 
thinking  or  in  doing  any  mischief.^ 

I  have  not  much  pleasure  in  writing  these  Essays,  or  in  read-  5 
ing  them  afterwards  ;  though  I  own  I  now  and  then  meet  with 
a  phrase  that  I  like,  or  a  thought  that  strikes  me  as  a  true  one. 
But  after  I  begin  them,  I  am  only  anxious  to  get  to  the  end  of 
them,  which  I  am  not  sure  I  shall  do,  for  I  seldom  see  my  way 
a  page  or  even  a  sentence  beforehand ;  and  when  I  have  as  by  10 
a  miracle  escaped,  I  trouble  myself  little  more  about  them.  I 
sometimes  have  to  write  them  twice  over :  then  it  is  necessary 
to  read  the  proof,  to  prevent  mistakes  by  the  printer  ;  so  that  by 
the  time  they  appear  in  a  tangible  shape,  and  one  can  con  them 
over  with  a  conscious,  sidelong  glance  to  the  public  approbation,  1 5 
they  have  lost  their  gloss  and  relish,  and  become  "  more  tedious 
than  a  twice-told  tale."  For  a  person  to  read  his  own  works  over 
with  any  great  delight,  he  ought  first  to  forget  that  he  ever 
wrote  them.  Familiarity  naturally  breeds  contempt.  It  is,  in  fact, 
like  poring  fondly  over  a  piece  of  blank  paper :  from  repetition,  20 

1  There  is  a  passage  in  Werter  which  contains  a  very  pleasing  illustration  of 
this  doctrine,  and  is  as  follows. 

"  About  a  league  from  the  town  is  a  place  called  Walheim.  It  is  very  agreeably  situated 
on  the  side  of  a  hill :  from  one  of  the  paths  which  leads  out  of  the  village,  you  have  a  view 
of  the  whole  country ;  and  there  is  a  good  old  woman  who  sells  wine,  coffee,  and  tea 
there  :  but  better  than  all  this  are  two  lime-trees  before  the  church,  which  spread  their 
branches  over  a  little  green,  surrounded  by  bams  and  cottages.  I  have  seen  few  places 
more  retired  and  peaceful.  I  send  for  a  chair  and  table  from  the  old  woman's,  and  there 
I  drink  my  coffee  and  read  Homer.  It  was  by  accident  that  I  discovered  this  place  one 
fine  afternoon  :  all  was  perfect  stillness  ;  every  body  was  in  the  fields,  except  a  little  boy 
about  four  years  old,  who  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  and  holding  between  his  knees  a  child 
of  about  si.x  months ;  he  pressed  it  to  his  bosom  with  his  little  arms,  which  made  a  sort 
of  great  chair  for  it ;  and  notwithstanding  the  vivacity  which  sparkled  in  his  eyes,  he  sat 
perfectly  still.  Quite  delighted  with  the  scene,  I  sat  down  on  a  plough  opposite,  and  had 
great  pleasure  in  drawing  this  little  picture  of  brotherly  tenderness.  I  added  a  bit  of  the 
hedge,  the  barn-door,  and  some  broken  cart-wheels,  without  any  order,  just  as  they  hap- 
pened to  lie  ;  and  in  about  an  hour  I  found  I  had  made  a  drawing  of  great  expression  and 
veiy  correct  design,  without  having  put  in  any  thing  of  my  own.  This  confirmed  me  in  the 
resolution  I  had  made  before,  only  to  copy  nature  for  the  future.  Nature  is  inexhaustible, 
and  alone  forms  the  greatest  masters.  Say  what  you  will  of  rules,  they  alter  the  true  fea- 
tures, and  the  natural  expression."   Page  15. 


84  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

the  words  convey  no  distinct  meaning  to  the  mind,  are  mere  idle 
sounds,  except  that  our  vanity  claims  an  interest  and  property  in 
them.  I  have  more  satisfaction  in  my  own  thoughts  than  in 
dictating  them  to  others :  words  are  necessary  to  explain  the 
5  impression  of  certain  things  upon  me  to  the  reader,  but  they 
rather  weaken  and  draw  a  veil  over  than  strengthen  it  to  myself. 
However  I  might  say  with  the  poet,  "  My  mind  to  me  a  king- 
dom is,"  yet  I  have  little  ambition  "  to  set  a  throne  or  chair  of 
state  in  the  understandings  of  other  men."  The  ideas  we  cherish 
lo  most,  exist  best  in  a  kind  of  shadowy  abstraction, 

"  Pure  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind  ;  " 

and  derive  neither  force  nor  interest  from  being  exposed  to  pub- 
lic view.  They  are  old  familiar  acquaintance,  and  any  change 
in  them,  arising  from  the  adventitious  ornaments  of  style  or 

15  dress,  is  little  to  their  advantage.  After  I  have  once  written  on 
a  subject,  it  goes  out  of  my  mind :  my  feelings  about  it  have 
been  melted  down  into  words,  and  them  I  forget.  I  have,  as  it 
were,  discharged  my  memory  of  its  old  habitual  reckoning,  and 
rubbed  out  the  score  of  real  sentiment.    For  the  future,  it  exists 

20  only  for  the  sake  of  others. —  But  I  cannot  say,  from  my  own  ex- 
perience, that  the  same  process  takes  place  in  transferring  our 
ideas  to  canvas ;  they  gain  more  than  they  lose  in  the  mechani- 
cal transformation.  One  is  never  tired  of  painting,  because  you 
have  to  set  down  not  what  you  knew  already,  but  what  you 

25  have  just  discovered.  In  the  former  case,  you  translate  feelings 
into  words  ;  in  the  latter,  names  into  things.  There  is  a  continual 
creation  out  of  nothing  going  on.  With  every  stroke  of  the 
brush,  a  new  field  of  inquiry  is  laid  open ;  new  difficulties  arise, 
and  new  triumphs  arc  prepared  over  them.     By  comparing  the 

30  imitation  with  the  original,  you  see  what  you  have  done,  and 
how  much  you  have  still  to  do.  The  test  of  the  senses  is  severer 
than  that  of  fancy,  and  an  over-match  even  for  the  delusions  of 
our  self-love.    One  part  of  a  picture  shames  another,  and  you 


ON  THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING  85 

determine  to  paint  up  to  yourself,  if  you  cannot  come  up  to  na- 
ture. Every  object  becomes  lustrous  from  the  light  thrown  back 
upon  it  by  the  mirror  of  art :  and  by  the  aid  of  the  pencil  we  may 
be  said  to  touch  and  handle  the  objects  of  sight.  The  air-drawn 
visions  that  hover  on  the  verge  of  existence  have  a  bodily  pres-  5 
ence  given  them  on  the  canvas :  the  form  of  beauty  is  changed 
into  substance  :  the  dream  and  the  glory  of  the  universe  is  made 
"  palpable  to  feeling  as  to  sight."  —  And  seel  a  rainbow  starts 
from  the  canvas,  with  all  its  humid  train  of  glory,  as  if  it  were 
drawn  from  its  cloudy  arch  in  heaven.  The  spangled  landscape  10 
glitters  with  drops  of  dew  after  the  shower.  The  "fleecy  fools" 
show  their  coats  in  the  gleams  of  the  setting  sun.  The  shepherds 
pipe  their  farewell  notes  in  the  fresh  evening  air.  And  is  this 
bright  vision  made  from  a  dead  dull  blank,  like  a  bubble  reflect- 
ing the  mighty  fabric  of  the  universe  ?  Who  would  think  this  1 5 
miracle  of  Rubens's  pencil  possible  to  be  performed  ?  Who, 
having  seen  it,  would  not  spend  his  life  to  do  the  like  ?  See  how 
the  rich  fallows,  the  bare  stubble-field,  the  scanty  harvest-home, 
drag  in  Rembrandt's  landscapes  !  How  often  have  I  looked  at 
them  and  nature,  and  tried  to  do  the  same,  till  the  very  "  light  20 
thickened,"  and  there  was  an  earthiness  in  the  feeling  of  the 
air !  There  is  no  end  of  the  refinements  of  art  and  nature  in 
this  respect.  One  may  look  at  the  misty  glimmering  horizon 
till  the  eye  dazzles  and  the  imagination  is  lost,  in  hopes  to 
transfer  the  whole  interminable  expanse  at  one  blow  upon  the  25 
canvas.  Wilson  said,  he  used  to  try  to  paint  the  effect  of  the 
motes  dancing  in  the  setting  sun.  At  another  time,  a  friend 
coming  into  his  painting-room  when  he  was  sitting  on  the  ground 
in  a.  melancholy  posture,  observed  that  his  picture  looked  like  a 
landscape  after  a  shower :  he  started  up  with  the  greatest  delight,  30 
and  said,  "  That  is  the  effect  I  intended  to  produce,  but  thought 
I  had  failed."  Wilson  was  neglected  ;  and,  by  degrees,  neglected 
his  art  to  apply  himself  to  brandy.  His  hand  became  unsteady, 
so  that  it  was  only  by  repeated  attempts  that  he  could  reach 


86  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

the  place,  or  produce  the  effect  he  aimed  at ;  and  when  he  had 
done  a  little  to  a  picture,  he  would  say  to  any  acquaintance  who 
chanced  to  drop  in,  "  I  have  painted  enough  for  one  day  :  come, 
let  us  go  somewhere."    It  was  not  so  Claude  left  his  pictures, 

5  or  his  studies  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber,  to  go  in  search  of  other 
enjoyments,  or  ceased  to  gaze  upon  the  glittering  sunny  vales 
and  distant  hills ;  and  while  his  eye  drank  in  the  clear  sparkling 
hues  and  lovely  forms  of  nature,  his  hand  stamped  them  on 
the  lucid  canvas  to  last  there  for  ever !  —  One  of  the  most  de- 

lo  lightful  parts  of  my  life  was  one  fine  summer,  when  I  used  to 
walk  out  of  an  evening  to  catch  the  last  light  of  the  sun,  gem- 
ming the  green  slopes  or  russet  lawns,  and  gilding  tower  or 
tree,  while  the  blue  sky  gradually  turning  to  purple  and  gold, 
or  skirted  with  dusky  grey,  hung  its  broad  marble  pavement 

IS  over  all,  as  we  see  it  in  the  great  master  of  Italian  landscape. 
But  to  come  to  more  particular  explanation  of  the  subject. 

The  first  head  I  ever  tried  to  paint  was  an  old  woman  with 
the  upper  part  of  the  face  shaded  by  her  bonnet,  and  I  certainly 
laboured  it  with  great  perseverance.    It  took  me  numberless  sit- 

20  tings  to  do  it.  I  have  it  by  me  still,  and  sometimes  look  at  it 
with  surprise,  to  think  how  much  pains  were  thrown  away  to 
little  purpose,  —  yet  not  altogether  in  vain  if  it  taught  me  to  see 
good  in  every  thing,  and  to  know  that  there  is  nothing  vulgar  in 
nature  seen  v\^ith  the  eye  of  science  or  of  true  art.    Refinement 

25  creates  beauty  everywhere :  it  is  the  grossness  of  the  spectator 
that  discovers  nothing  but  grossness  in  the  object.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  I  spared  no  pains  to  do  my  best.  If  art  was  long,  I 
thought  that  life  was  so  too  at  that  moment.  1  got  in  the  gen- 
eral effect  the  first  day;  and  pleased  and  surprised  enough  I 

30  was  at  my  success.  The  rest  was  a  work  of  time  —  of  weeks 
and  months  (if  need  were)  of  patient  toil  and  careful  finishing. 
I  had  seen  an  old  head  by  Rembrandt  at  Burleigh-House,  and  if 
I  could  produce  a  head  at  all  like  Rembrandt  in  a  year,  in  my 
life  time,  it  would  be  glory  and  felicity  and  wealth  and  fame 


ON  THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING  8/ 

enough  for  me !  The  head  I  had  seen  at  Burleigh  was  an  exact 
and  wonderful  fac-simile  of  nature,  and  I  resolved  to  make  mine 
(as  nearly  as  I  could)  an  exact  fac-simile  of  nature.  I  did  not 
then,  nor  do  I  now  believe,  with  Sir  Joshua,  that  the  perfection 
of  art  consists  in  giving  general  appearances  without  individual  5 
details,  but  in  giving  general  appearances  with  individual  details. 
Otherwise,  I  had  done  my  work  the  first  day.  But  I  saw  some- 
thing more  in  nature  than  general  effect,  and  I  thought  it  worth 
my  while  to  give  it  in  the  picture.  There  was  a  gorgeous  effect 
of  light  and  shade :  but  there  was  a  delicacy  as  well  as  depth  in  10 
the  chiaro  sciiro,  which  I  was  bound  to  follow  into  all  its  dim  and 
scarce  perceptible  variety  of  tone  and  shadow.  Then  I  had  to 
make  the  transition  from  a  strong  light  to  as  dark  a  shade,  pre- 
serving the  masses,  but  gradually  softening  off  the  intermediate 
parts.  It  was  so  in  nature:  the  difficulty  was  to  make  it  so  in  15 
the  copy.  I  tried,  and  failed  again  and  again ;  I  strove  harder, 
and  succeeded  as  I  thought.  The  wrinkles  in  Rembrandt  were 
not  hard  lines ;  but  broken  and  irregular.  I  saw  the  same  appear- 
ance in  nature,  and  strained  eveiy  nerve  to  give  it.  If  I  could 
hit  off  this  edgy  appearance,  and  insert  the  reflected  light  in  the  20 
furrows  of  old  age  in  half  a  morning,  I  did  not  think  I  had  lost 
a  day.  Beneath  the  shrivelled  yellow  parchment  look  of  the 
skin  there  was  here  and  there  a  streak  of  the  blood  colour  ting- 
ing the  face ;  this  I  made  a  point  of  conveying,  and  did  not 
cease  to  compare  what  I  saw  with  what  I  did  (with  jealous  lynx-  25 
eyed  watchfulness)  till  I  succeeded  to  the  best  of  my  ability  and 
judgment.  Howmanyrevisions  were  there!  How  many  attempts 
to  catch  an  expression  which  I  had  seen  the  day  before !  How 
often  did  we  try  to  get  the  old  position,  and  wait  for  the  return 
of  the  same  light !  There  was  a  puckering  up  of  the  lips,  a  30 
cautious  introversion  of  the  eye  under  the  shadow  of  the  bon- 
net, indicative  of  the  feebleness  and  suspicion  of  old  age,  which 
at  last  we  managed,  after  many  trials  and  some  quarrels,  to  a 
tolerable  nicety.    The  picture  was  never  finished,  and  I  might 


88  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

have  gone  on  with  it  to  the  present  hour.^  I  used  to  set  it  on 
the  ground  when  my  day's  work  was  done,  and  saw  revealed  to 
me  with  swimming  eyes  the  birth  of  new  hopes,  and  of  a  new 
world  of  objects.    The  painter  thus  learns  to  look  at  nature  with 

5  different  eyes.  He  before  saw  her  "  as  in  a  glass  darkly,  but 
now  face  to  face."  He  understands  the  texture  and  meaning 
of  the  visible  universe,  and  "  sees  into  the  life  of  things,"  not 
by  the  help  of  mechanical  instruments,  but  of  the  improved 
exercise  of  his  faculties,  and  an  intimate  sympathy  with  nature. 

lo  The  meanest  thing  is  not  lost  upon  him,  for  he  looks  at  it  with 
an  eye  to  itself,  not  merely  to  his  own  vanity  or  interest,  or  the 
opinion  of  the  world.  Even  where  there  is  neither  beauty  nor 
use  —  if  that  ever  were  —  still  there  is  truth,  and  a  sufficient 
source  of  gratification  in  the  indulgence  of  curiosity  and  activity 

IS  of  mind.  The  humblest  painter  is  a  true  scholar;  and  the  best 
of  scholars  —  the  scholar  of  nature.  For  myself,  and  for  the 
real  comfort  and  satisfaction  of  the  thing,  I  had  rather  have  been 
Jan  Steen,  or  Gerard  Dow,  than  the  greatest  casuist  or  philologer 
that  ever  lived.    The  painter  does  not  view  things  in  clouds  or 

20  "  mist,  the  common  gloss  of  theologians,"  but  applies  the  same 
standard  of  truth  and  disinterested  spirit  of  inquiry,  that  influence 
his  daily  practice  to  other  subjects.  He  perceives  form,  he  dis- 
tinguishes character.  He  reads  men  and  books  with  an  intuitive 
eye.    He  is  a  critic  as  well  as  a  connoisseur.    The  conclusions 

25  he  draws  are  clear  and  convincing,  because  they  are  taken  from 
the  things  themselves.  He  is  not  a  fanatic,  a  dupe,  or  a  slave : 
for  the  habit  of  seeing  for  himself  also  disposes  him  to  judge 
for  himself.  The  most  sensible  men  I  know  (taken  as  a  class) 
are  painters ;  that  is,  they  are  the  most  lively  observers  of  what 

30  passes  in  the  world  about  them,  and  the  closest  observers  of 
what  passes  in  their  own  minds.    From  their  profession  they  in 

1  It  is  at  present  covered  with  a  thick  slough  of  oil  and  varnish  (the  perish- 
able vehicle  of  the  English  school),  like  an  envelope  of  gold-beaters'  skin,  so  as 
to  be  hardly  visible. 


ON  THE   PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING  89 

general  mix  more  with  the  world  than  authors;  and  if  they 
have  not  the  same  fund  of  acquired  knowledge,  are  obliged  to 
rely  more  on  individual  sagacity.  I  might  mention  the  names 
of  Opie,  Fuseli,  Northcote,  as  persons  distinguished  for  striking 
description  and  acquaintance  with  the  subtle  traits  of  character.^  5 
Painters  in  ordinary  society,  or  in  obscure  situations  where  their 
value  is  not  known,  and  they  are  treated  with  neglect  and  indif- 
ference, have  sometimes  a  forward  self-sufficiency  of  manner: 
but  this  is  not  so  much  their  fault  as  that  of  others.  Perhaps 
their  want  of  regular  education  may  also  be  in  fault  in  such  10 
cases.  Richardson,  who  is  very  tenacious  of  the  respect  in  which 
the  profession  ought  to  be  held,  tells  a  story  of  Michael  Angelo, 
that  after  a  quarrel  between  him  and  Pope  Julius  11.  "  upon 
account  of  a  slight  the  artist  conceived  the  pontiff  had  put  upon 
him,  Michael  Angelo  was  introduced  by  a  bishop,  who,  thinking  15 
to  serve  the  artist  by  it,  made  it  an  argument  that  the  Pope 
should  be  reconciled  to  him,  because  men  of  his  profession  were 
commonly  ignorant,  and  of  no  consequence  otherwise :  his  holi- 
ness, enraged  at  the  bishop,  struck  him  with  his  staff,  and  told 
him,  it  was  he  that  was  the  blockhead,  and  affronted  the  man  20 
himself  would  not  offend;  the  prelate  was  driven  out  of  the 
chamber,  and  Michael  Angelo  had  the  Pope's  benediction  ac- 
companied with  presents.  This  bishop  had  fallen  into  the  vul- 
gar error,  and  was  rebuked  accordingly." 

Besides  the  exercise  of  the  mind,  painting  exercises  the  body.  25 
It  is  a  mechanical  as  well  as  a  liberal  art.    To  do  anything,  to 
dig  a  hole  in  the  ground,  to  plant  a  cabbage,  to  hit  a  mark, 
to  move  a  shuttle,  to  work  a  pattern,  —  in  a  word,  to  attempt 
to  produce  any  effect,  and  to  succeed,  has  something  in  it  that 

1  Men  in  business,  who  are  answerable  with  their  fortunes  for  the  conse- 
quences of  their  opinions,  and  are  therefore  accustomed  to  ascertain  pretty  accu- 
rately the  grounds  on  which  they  act,  before  they  commit  themselves  on  the 
event,  are  often  men  of  remarkably  quick  and  sound  judgments.  Artists  in  like 
manner  must  know  tolerably  well  what  they  are  about,  before  they  can  bring  the 
result  of  their  observations  to  the  test  of  ocular  demonstration. 


90  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

gratifies  the  love  of  power,  and  carries  off  the  restless  activity 
of  the  mind  of  man.  Indolence  is  a  delightful  but  distressing 
state  :  we  must  be  doing  something  to  be  happy.  Action  is  no 
less  necessary  than  thought  to  the  instinctive  tendencies  of  the 
5  human  frame ;  and  painting  combines  them  both  incessantly.' 
The  hand  furnishes  a  practical  test  of  the  correctness  of  the 
eye ;  and  the  eye  thus  admonished,  imposes  fresh  tasks  of  skill 
and  industry  upon  the  hand.  Every  stroke  tells,  as  the  verify- 
ing of  a  new  truth  ;  and  every  new  observation,  the  instant  it  is 

10  made,  passes  into  an  act  and  emanation  of  the  will.  Every  step 
is  nearer  what  we  wish,  and  yet  there  is  always  more  to  do.  In 
spite  of  the  facility,  the  fluttering  grace,  the  evanescent  hues, 
that  play  round  the  pencil  of  Rubens  and  Vandyke,  however  I 
may  admire,  I  do  not  envy  them  this  power  so  much  as  I  do 

15  the  slow,  patient,  laborious  execution  of  Correggio,  Leonardo 
da  Vinci,  and  Andrea  del  Sarto,  where  every  touch  appears 
conscious  of  its  charge,  emulous  of  truth,  and  where  the  painful 
artist  has  so  distinctly  wrought, 

"  That  you  might  almost  say  his  picture  thought !  " 

20  In  the  one  case,  the  colours  seemed  breathed  on  the  canvas 
as  if  by  magic,  the  work  and  the  v^^onder  of  a  moment :  in  the 
other,  they  seem  inlaid  in  the  body  of  the  work,  and  as  if  it 
took  the  artist  years  of  unremitting  labour,  and  of  delightful 
never-ending  progress  to  perfection.'^   Who  would  wish  ever  to 

25  come  to  the  close  of  such  works,  —  not  to  dwell  on  them,  to 
return  to  them,  to  be  wedded  to  them  to  the  last .''  Rubens, 
with  his  florid,  rapid  style,  complained  that  when  he  had  just 
learned  his  art,  he  should  be  forced  to  die.  Leonardo,  in  the 
slow  advances  of  his,  had  lived  long  enough ! 

1  The  famous  Schiller  used  to  say,  that  he  found  the  great  happiness  of  life, 
after  all,  to  consist  in  the  discharge  of  some  mechanical  duty. 

2  The  rich  impasting  of  Titian  and  Giorgione  combines  something  of  the 
advantages  of  both  these  styles,  the  felicity  of  the  one  with  the  carefulness  of  the 
other,  and  is  perhaps  to  be  preferred  to  either. 


ON  THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING  91 

Painting  is  not,  like  writing,  what  is  pi'operly  understood  by 
a  sedentary  employment.  It  requires  not  indeed  a  strong,  but 
a  continued  and  steady  exertion  of  muscular  power.  The  preci- 
sion and  delicacy  of  the  manual  operation,  makes  up  for  the 
want  of  vehemence,  —  as  to  balance  himself  for  any  time  in  the  5 
same  position  the  rope-dancer  must  strain  every  nerve.  Painting 
for  a  whole  morning  gives  one  as  excellent  an  appetite  for  one's 
dinner,  as  old  Abraham  Tucker  acquired  for  his  by  riding  over 
Banstead  Downs.  It  is  related  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  that 
"  he  took  no  other  exercise  than  what  he  used  in  his  painting-  10 
room,"  —  the  writer  means,  in  walking  backwards  and  forwards 
to  look  at  his  picture  ;  but  the  act  of  painting  itself,  of  laying  on 
the  colours  in  the  proper  place,  and  proper  quantity,  was  a  much 
harder  exercise  than  this  alternate  receding  from  and  returning 
to  the  picture.  This  last  would  be  rather  a  relaxation  and  relief  1 5 
than  an  effort.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  an  artist  like 
Sir  Joshua,  who  delighted  so  much  in  the  sensual  and  practical 
part  of  his  art,  should  have  found  himself  at  a  considerable 
loss  when  the  decay  of  his  sight  precluded  him,  for  the  last 
year  or  two  of  his  life,  from  the  following  up  of  his  profession,  20 
—  "  the  source,"  according  to  his  own  remark,  "  of  thirty  years 
uninterrupted  enjoyment  and  prosperity  to  him."  It  is  only 
those  who  never  think  at  all,  or  else  who  have  accustomed 
themselves  to  brood  incessantly  on  abstract  ideas,  that  never 
feel  ennui.  25 

To  give  one  instance  more,  and  then  I  will  have  done  with 
this  rambling  discourse.  One  of  my  first  attempts  was  a  picture 
of  my  father,  who  was  then  in  a  green  old  age,  with  strong- 
marked  features,  and  scarred  with  the  small-pox.  I  drew  it  out 
with  a  broad  light  crossing  the  face,  looking  down,  with  spec-  30 
tacles  on,  reading.  The  book  was  Shaftesbury's  Characteristics, 
in  a  fine  old  binding,  with  Gribelin's  etchings.  My  father  would 
as  lieve  it  had  been  any  other  book ;  but  for  him  to  read  was 
to  be  content,  was  "  riches  fineless."    The  sketch  promised  well ; 


92  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

and  I  set  to  work  to  finish  it,  determined  to  spare  no  time  nor 
pains.  My  father  was  willing  to  sit  as  long  as  I  pleased ;  for 
there  is  a  natural  desire  in  the  mind  of  man  to  sit  for  one's 
picture,  to  be  the  object  of  continued  attention,  to  have  one's 
5  likeness  multiplied ;  and  besides  his  satisfaction  in  the  picture, 
he  had  some  pride  in  the  artist,  though  he  would  rather  I  should 
have  written  a  sermon  than  painted  like  Rembrandt  or  like 
Raphael.  Those  winter  days,  with  the  gleams  of  sunshine  com- 
ing through  the  chapel-windows,  and  cheered  by  the  notes  of 

lo  the  robin-redbreast  in  our  garden  (that  "  ever  in  the  haunch  of 
winter  sings")  —  as  my  afternoon's  work  drew  to  a  close, — 
were  among  the  happiest  of  my  life.  When  I  gave  the  effect  I 
intended  to  any  part  of  the  picture  for  which  I  had  prepared 
my  colours,  when  I  imitated  the  roughness  of  the  skin  by  a 

15  lucky  stroke  of  the  pencil,  when  I  hit  the  clear  pearly  tone  of 
a  vein,  when  I  gave  the  ruddy  complexion  of  health,  the  blood 
circulating  under  the  broad  shadows  of  one  side  of  the  face,  I 
thought  my  fortune  made ;  or  rather  it  was  already  more  than 
made,  in  my  fancying  that  I  might  one  day  be  able  to  say  with 

20  Correggio,  '^''  I  also  am  apamter/"  It  was  an  idle  thought,  a 
boy's  conceit ;  but  it  did  not  make  me  less  happy  at  the  time. 
I  used  regularly  to  set  my  work  in  the  chair  to  look  at  it  through 
the  long  evenings ;  and  many  a  time  did  I  return  to  take  leave 
of  it  before  I  could  go  to  bed  at  night.    I  remember  sending  it 

25  with  a  throbbing  heart  to  the  Exhibition,  and  seeing  it  hung  up 
there  by  the  side  of  one  of  the  Honourable  Mr.  Skeffington 
(now  Sir  George).  There  was  nothing  in  common  between 
them,  but  that  they  were  the  portraits  of  two  very  good-natured 
men.    I  think,  but  am  not  sure,  that  I  finished  this  portrait  (or 

30  another  afterwards)  on  the  same  day  that  the  news  of  the  battle 
of  Austerlitz  came ;  I  walked  out  in  the  afternoon,  and,  as  I 
returned,  saw  the  evening  star  set  over  a  poor  man's  cottage 
with  other  thoughts  and  feelings  than  T  shall  ever  have  again. 
Oh  for  the  revolution  of  the  great  Platonic  year,  that  those  times 


ON  THE   PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING  93 

might  come  over  again  !  I  could  sleep  out  the  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  thousand  intervening  years  very  contentedly  I  —  I'he 
picture  is  left :  the  table,  the  chair,  the  window  where  I  learned 
to  construe  Livy,  the  chapel  where  my  father  preached,  remain 
where  they  were ;  but  he  himself  is  gone  to  rest,  full  of  years,  5 
of  faith,  of  hope,  and  charity  I 


ON   READING  OLD  BOOKS 

I  hate  to  read  new  books.  There  are  twenty  or  thirty  volumes 
that  I  have  read  over  and  over  again,  and  these  are  the  only 
ones  that  I  have  any  desire  ever  to  read  at  all.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  I  could  bring  myself  to  sit  down  to  the  Tales  of  My 

5  Landlord,  but  now  that  author's  works  have  made  a  considerable 
addition  to  my  scanty  library.  I  am  told  that  some  of  Lady 
Morgan's  are  good,  and  have  been  recommended  to  look  into 
Anastasius;  but  I  have  not  yet  ventured  upon  that  task.  A 
lady,  the  other  day,  could  not  refrain  from  expressing  her  sur- 

lo  prise  to  a  friend,  who  said  he  had  been  reading  Delphine :  — 
she  asked,  —  If  it  had  not  been  published  some  time  back? 
Women  judge  of  books  as  they  do  of  fashions  or  complexions, 
which  are  admired  only  "  in  their  newest  gloss."  That  is  not 
my  way.    I  am  not  one  of  those  who  trouble  the  circulating 

15  libraries  much,  or  pester  the  booksellers  for  mail-coach  copies 
of  standard  periodical  publications.  I  cannot  say  that  I  am 
greatly  addicted  to  black-letter,  but  I  profess  myself  well  versed 
in  the  marble  bindings  of  Andrew  Millar,  in  the  middle  of  the 
last  century  ;  nor  does  my  taste  revolt  at  Thurloe's  State  Papers, 

20  in  Russia  leather;  or  an  ample  impression  of  Sir  William 
Temple's  Essays,  with  a  portrait  after  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  in 
front.  I  do  not  think  altogether  the  worse  of  a  book  for  having 
survived  the  author  a  generation  or  two.  I  have  more  confidence 
in  the  dead  than  the  living.    Contemporary  writers  may  gener- 

25  ally  be  divided  into  two  classes  —  one's  friends  or  one's  foes.  Of 
the  first  we  are  compelled  to  think  too  well,  and  of  the  last  we 
are  disposed  to  think  too  ill,  to  receive  much  genuine  pleasure 
from  the  perusal,  or  to  judge  fairly  of  the  merits  of  either.    One 

94 


ON   READING  OLD  BOOKS  95 

candidate  for  literary  fame,  who  happens  to  be  of  our  acquaint- 
ance, writes  finely,  and  like  a  man  of  genius  ;  but  unfortunately 
has  a  foolish  face,  which  spoils  a  delicate  passage :  —  another 
inspires  us  with  the  highest  respect  for  his  personal  talents  and 
character,  but  does  not  quite  come  up  to  our  expectations  in  5 
print.  All  these  contradictions  and  petty  details  interrupt  the 
calm  current  of  our  reflections.  If  you  want  to  know  what  any 
of  the  authors  were  who  lived  before  our  time,  and  are  still 
objects  of  anxious  inquiry,  you  have  only  to  look  into  their 
works.  But  the  dust  and  smoke  and  noise  of  modern  literature  10 
have  nothing  in  common  with  the  pure,  silent  air  of  immortality. 
When  I  take  up  a  work  that  I  have  read  before  (the  oftener 
the  better)  I  know  what  I  have  to  expect.  The  satisfaction  is 
not  lessened  by  being  anticipated.  When  the  entertainment  is 
altogether  new,  I  sit  down  to  it  as  I  should  to  a  strange  dish, —  15 
turn  and  pick  out  a  bit  here  and  there,  and  am  in  doubt  what 
to  think  of  the  composition.  There  is  a  want  of  confidence  and 
security  to  second  appetite.  New-fangled  books  are  also  like 
made-dishes  in  this  respect,  that  they  are  generally  little  else  than 
hashes  and  rifaccimentos  of  what  has  been  served  up  entire  and  20 
in  a  more  natural  state  at  other  times.  Besides,  in  thus  turning 
to  a  well-known  author,  there  is  not  only  an  assurance  that  my 
time  will  not  be  thrown  away,  or  my  palate  nauseated  with  the 
most  insipid  or  vilest  trash,  —  but  I  shake  hands  with,  and  look 
an  old,  tried,  and  valued  friend  in  the  face,  —  compare  notes,  25 
and  chat  the  hours  away.  It  is  true,  we  form  dear  friendships 
with  such  ideal  guests  —  dearer,  alas !  and  more  lasting,  than 
those  with  our  most  intimate  acquaintance.  In  reading  a  book 
which  is  an  old  favourite  with  me  (say  the  first  novel  I  ever 
read)  I  not  only  have  the  pleasure  of  imagination  and  of  a  crit-  30 
ical  relish  of  the  work,  but  the  pleasures  of  memory  added  to  it. 
It  recals  the  same  feelings  and  associations  which  I  had  in  first 
reading  it,  and  which  I  can  never  have  again  in  any  other  way. 
Standard  productions  of  this  kind  are  links  in  the  chain  of  our 


96  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

conscious  being.  They  bind  together  the  different  scattered 
divisions  of  our  personal  identity.  They  are  land-marks  and 
guides  in  our  journey  through  life.  They  are  pegs  and  loops  on 
which  we  can  hang  up,  or  from  which  we  can  take  down,  at 

5  pleasure,  the  wardrobe  of  a  moral  imagination,  the  relics  of  our 
best  affections,  the  tokens  and  records  of  our  happiest  hours. 
They  are  "  for  thoughts  and  for  remembrance !  "  They  are  like 
Fortunatus's  Wishing-Cap  —  they  give  us  the  best  riches  — 
those  of  Fancy ;    and  transport  us,  not  over  half  the  globe,  but 

lo  (which  is  better)  over  half  our  lives,  at  a  word's  notice ! 

My  father  Shandy  solaced  himself  with  Bruscambille.  Give 
me  for  this  purpose  a  volume  of  Peregrine  Pickle  or  Tom  Jones. 
Open  either  of  them  any  where — at  the  Memoirs  of  Lady  Vane, 
or  the  adventures  at  the  masquerade  with  Lady  Bellaston,  or 

15  the  disputes  between  Thwackum  and  Square,  or  the  escape  of 
Molly  Seagrim,  or  the  incident  of  Sophia  and  her  muff,  or  the 
edifying  prolixity  of  her  aunt's  lecture  —  and  there  I  find  the 
same  delightful,  busy,  bustling  scene  as  ever,  and  feel  myself 
the  same  as  when  I  was  first  introduced  into  the  midst  of  it. 

20  Nay,  sometimes  the  sight  of  an  odd  volume  of  these  good  old 
English  authors  on  a  stall,  or  the  name  lettered  on  the  back 
among  others  on  the  shelves  of  a  librar)-,  answers  the  purpose, 
revives  the  whole  train  of  ideas,  and  sets  "  the  puppets  dallying." 
Twenty  years  are  struck  off  the  list,  and  I  am  a  child  again.    A 

25  sage  philosopher,  who  was  not  a  very  wise  man,  said,  that  he 
should  like  very  well  to  be  young  again,  if  he  could  take  his 
experience  along  with  him.  This  ingenious  person  did  not  seem 
to  be  aware,  by  the  gravity  of  his  remark,  that  the  great  advan- 
tage of  being  young  is  to  be  without  this  weight  of  experience, 

30  which  he  would  fain  place  upon  the  shoulders  of  youth,  and 
which  never  comes  too  late  with  years.  Oh  !  what  a  privilege 
to  be  able  to  let  this  hump,  like  Christian's  burthen,  drop  from 
off  one's  back,  and  transport  one's-self,  by  the  help  of  a  little 
musty  duodecimo,  to  the  time  when  "  ignorance  was  bliss,"  and 


ON   READING  OLD  BOOKS  97 

when  we  first  got  a  peep  at  the  raree-show  of  the  world,  through 
the  glass  of  fiction  —  gazing  at  mankind,  as  we  do  at  wild  beasts 
in  a  menagerie,  through  the  bars  of  their  cages,  —  or  at  curiosi- 
ties in  a  museum,  that  we  must  not  touch !  For  myself,  not 
only  are  the  old  ideas  of  the  contents  of  the  work  brought  back  5 
to  my  mind  in  all  their  vividness,  but  the  old  associations  of 
the  faces  and  persons  of  those  I  then  knew,  as  they  were  in 
their  life-time  —  the  place  where  I  sat  to  read  the  volume, 
the  day  when  I  got  it,  the  feeling  of  the  air,  the  fields,  the  sky 
—  return,  and  all  my  early  impressions  with  them.  This  is  10 
better  to  me  —  those  places,  those  times,  those  persons,  and 
those  feelings  that  come  across  me  as  I  retrace  the  story  and 
devour  the  page,  are  to  me  better  far  than  the  wet  sheets  of  the 
last  new  novel  from  the  Ballantyne  press,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
Minerva  press  in  Leadenhall-street.  It  is  like  visiting  the  scenes  15 
of  early  youth.  I  think  of  the  time  "  when  I  was  in  my  father's 
house,  and  my  path  ran  down  with  butter  and  honey,"  —  when 
I  was  a  little,  thoughtless  child,  and  had  no  other  wish  or  care 
but  to  con  my  daily  task,  and  be  happy !  —  Tom  Jones,  I  re- 
member, was  the  first  work  that  broke  the  spell.  It  came  down  20 
in  numbers  once  a  fortnight,  in  Cooke's  pocket-edition,  embel- 
lished with  cuts.  I  had  hitherto  read  only  in  school-books,  and 
a  tiresome  ecclesiastical  history  (with  the  exception  of  Mrs. 
Radcliffe's  Romance  of  the  Forest)  :  but  this  had  a  different 
relish  with  it,  —  "sweet  in  the  mouth,"  though  not  "bitter  in  25 
the  belly."  It  smacked  of  the  world  I  lived  in,  and  in  which  I 
was  to  live  —  and  shewed  me  groups,  "  gay  creatures  "  not  "  of 
the  element,"  but  of  the  earth ;  not  "  living  in  the  clouds,"  but 
travelling  the  same  road  that  I  did  ;  —  some  that  had  passed  on 
before  me,  and  others  that  might  soon  overtake  me.  My  heart  30 
had  palpitated  at  the  thoughts  of  a  boarding-school  ball,  or 
gala-day  at  Midsummer  or  Christmas :  but  the  world  I  had 
found  out  in  Cooke's  edition  of  the  British  Novelists  was  to 
me  a  dance  through  life,  a  perpetual  gala-day.    The  six- penny 


98  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

numbers  of  this  work  regularly  contrived  to  leave  off  just  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence,  and  in  the  nick  of  a  story,  where  Tom 
Jones  discovers  Square  behind  the  blanket ;  or  where  Parson 
Adams,  in  the  inextricable  confusion  of  events,  very  undesign- 
5  edly  gets  to  bed  to  Mrs.  Slip-slop.  Let  me  caution  the  reader 
against  this  impression  of  Joseph  Andrews ;  for  there  is  a  pic- 
ture of  Fanny  in  it  which  he  should  not  set  his  heart  on,  lest  he 
should  never  meet  with  any  thing  like  it ;  or  if  he  should,  it 
would,  perhaps,  be  better  for  him  that  he  had  not.    It  was  just 

10  like !    With  what  eagerness  I  used  to  look  forward 

to  the  next  number,  and  open  the  prints !  Ah !  never  again 
shall  I  feel  the  enthusiastic  delight  with  which  I  gazed  at  the 
figures,  and  anticipated  the  story  and  adventures  of  Major  Bath 
and  Commodore  Trunnion,  of  Trim  and  my  Uncle  Toby,  of 

15  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  and  Dapple,  of  Gil  Bias  and  Dame 
Lorenza  Sephora,  of  Laura  and  the  fair  Lucretia,  whose  lips 
open  and  shut  like  buds  of  roses.  To  what  nameless  ideas  did 
they  give  rise, — with  what  airy  delights  I  filled  up  the  outlines, 
as  I  hung  in  silence  over  the  page !  —  Let  me  still  recal  them, 

20  that  they  may  breathe  fresh  life  into  me,  and  that  I  may  live 

that  birthday  of  thought  and   romantic  pleasure   over  again ! 

Talk  of  the  ideal !    This  is  the  only  true  ideal  —  the  heavenly 

tints  of  Fancy  reflected  in  the   bubbles   that   float  upon   the 

spring-tide  of  human  life. 

25  Oh!    Memory!    shield  me  from  the  world's  poor  strife, 

And  give  those  scenes  thine  everlasting  life ! 

The  paradox  with  which  I  set  out  is,  I  hope,  less  startling 
than  it  was  ;  the  reader  will,  by  this  time,  have  been  let  into  my 
secret.  Much  about  the  same  time,  or  1  believe  rather  earlier, 
30  T  took  a  particular  satisfaction  in  reading  Chubb's  Tracts,  and  I 
often  think  I  will  get  them  again  to  wade  through.  There  is  a 
high  gusto  of  polemical  divinity  in  them  ;  and  you  fancy  that 
you  hear  a  clul)  of  shoemakers  at  Salisbury,  debating  a  disputa- 
ble text  from  one  of  St.  Paul's  Epistles  in  a  workmanlike  style, 


ON   READING  OLD  BOOKS  99 

with  equal  shrewdness  and  pertinacity.  I  cannot  say  much  for 
my  metaphysical  studies,  into  which  1  launched  shortly  after 
with  great  ardour,  so  as  to  make  a  toil  of  a  pleasure.  I  was 
presently  entangled  in  the  briars  and  thorns  of  subtle  distinc- 
tions, —  of  "  fate,  free-will,  fore-knowledge  absolute,"  though  5 
I  cannot  add  that  "  in  their  wandering  mazes  I  found  no  end;  " 
for  I  did  arrive  at  some  very  satisfactory  and  potent  conclusions  ; 
nor  will  I  go  so  far,  however  ungrateful  the  subject  might  seem, 
as  to  exclaim  with  Marlowe's  Faustus  —  "  Would  I  had  never 
seen  Wittenberg,  never  read  book  "  —  that  is,  never  studied  such  10 
authors  as  Hartley,  Hume,  Berkeley,  &c.  Locke's  Essay  on  the 
Human  Understanding  is,  however,  a  work  from  which  I  never 
derived  either  pleasure  or  profit ;  and  Hobbes,  dry  and  powerful 
as  he  is,  I  did  not  read  till  long  afterwards.  I  read  a  few  poets, 
which  did  not  much  hit  my  taste,  —  for  I  would  have  the  reader  1 5 
understand,  I  am  deficient  in  the  faculty  of  imagination ;  but  I 
fell  early  upon  French  romances  and  philosophy,  and  devoured 
them  tooth-and-nail.  Many  a  dainty  repast  have  I  made  of  the 
New  Eloise;- — the  description  of  the  kiss;  the  excursion  on  the 
water;  the  letter  of  St.  Preux,  recalling  the  time  of  their  first  20 
loves ;  and  the  account  of  Julia's  death ;  these  I  read  over  and 
over  again  with  unspeakable  delight  and  wonder.  Some  }cars 
after,  when  I  met  with  this  work  again,  I  found  I  had  lost 
nearly  my  whole  relish  for  it  (except  some  few  parts)  and  was 
I  remember,  very  much  mortified  with  the  change  in  my  taste,  25 
which  I  sought  to  attribute  to  the  smallness  and  gilt  edges  of 
the  edition  I  had  bought,  and  its  being  perfumed  with  rose- 
leaves.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  gravity,  the  solemnity  with 
which  I  carried  home  and  read  the  Dedication  to  the  Social 
Contract,  with  some  other  pieces  of  the  same  author,  which  I  30 
had  picked  up  at  a  stall  in  a  coarse  leathern  cover.  Of  the 
Confessions  I  have  spoken  elsewhere,  and  may  repeat  what  I 
have  said — "Sweet  is  the  dew  of  their  memory,  and  pleas- 
ant the  balm  of  their  recollection  !  "    Their  beauties  are   not 


lOO  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

"  scattered  like  stray-gifts  o'er  the  earth,"  but  sown  thick  on  the 
page,  rich  and  rare.  I  wish  I  had  never  read  the  Emilius,  or 
read  it  with  less  implicit  faith.  I  had  no  occasion  to  pamper 
my  natural  aversion  to  affectation  or  pretence,  by  romantic  and 
5  artificial  means.  I  had  better  have  formed  myself  on  the  model 
of  Sir  Fopling  Flutter.  There  is  a  class  of  persons  whose 
virtues  and  most  shining  qualities  sink  in,  and  are  concealed  by, 
an  absorbent  ground  of  modesty  and  reserve ;  and  such  a  one 
I  do,  without  vanity,  profess  myself.-'    Now  these  are  the  very 

lo  persons  who  are  likely  to  attach  themselves  to  the  character  of 
Emilius,  and  of  whom  it  is  sure  to  be  the  bane.  This  dull, 
phlegmatic,  retiring  humour  is  not  in  a  fair  way  to  be  corrected, 
but  confirmed  and  rendered  desperate,  by  being  in  that  work 
held  up  as  an  object  of  imitation,  as  an  example  of  simplicity 

15  and  magnanimity  —  by  coming  upon  us  with  all  the  recom- 
mendations of  novelty,  surprise,  and  superiority  to  the  prejudices 
of  the  world — by  being  stuck  upon  a  pedestal,  made  amiable, 
dazzling,  a  leurre  de  dupe  f  The  reliance  on  solid  worth  which  it 
inculcates,  the  preference  of  sober  truth  to  gaudy  tinsel,  hangs 

20  like  a  mill-stone  round  the  neck  of  the  imagination  —  "a  load 
to  sink  a  navy"  —  impedes  our  progress,  and  blocks  up  every 
prospect  in  life.  A  man,  to  get  on,  to  be  successful,  conspicuous, 
applauded,  should  not  retire  upon  the  centre  of  his  conscious 
resources,  but  be  always  at  the  circumference  of  appearances. 

25  He  must  envelop  himself  in  a  halo  of  mystery  —  he  must  ride 
in  an  equipage  of  opinion  —  he  must  walk  with  a  train  of  self- 
conceit  following  him  —  he  must  not  strip  himself  to  a  buff- 
jerkin,  to  the  doublet  and  hose  of  his  real  merits,  but  must 
surround  himself  with  a  cortege  of  prejudices,  like  the  signs  of 

30  the  Zodiac  —  he  must  seem  anything  but  what  he  is,  and  then 
he  may  pass  for  anything  he  pleases.    The  world  love  to  be 

1  Nearly  the  same  sentiment  was  wittily  and  happily  expressed  by  a  friend, 
who  had  some  lottery  puffs,  which  he  had  been  employed  to  write,  returned  on 
his  hands  for  their  too  great  severity  of  thought  and  classical  terseness  of  style, 
and  who  obser\'ed  on  that  occasion,  that  "'  Modest  merit  never  can  succeed ! " 


ON  READING  OLD  BOOKS  lOI 

amused  by  hollow  professions,  to  be  deceived  by  flattering 
appearances,  to  live  in  a  state  of  hallucination  ;  and  can  forgive 
everything  but  the  plain,  downright,  simple  honest  truth  —  such 
as  we  see  it  chalked  out  in  the  character  of  Emilius.  —  To 
return  from  this  digression,  which  is  a  little  out  of  place  here,  s 

Books  have  in  a  great  measure  lost  their  power  over  me ; 
nor  can  I  revive  the  same  interest  in  them  as  formerly.  I  per- 
ceive when  a  thing  is  good,  rather  than  feel  it.    It  is  true, 

Marcian  Colonna  is  a  dainty  book  ; 

and  the  reading  of  Mr.  Keats's  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  lately  made  me  lo 
regret  that  I  was  not  young  again.    The  beautiful  and  tender 
images  there  conjured  up,  "come  like  shadows  —  so  depart." 
The  "  tiger-moth's  wings,"  which  he  has  spread  over  his  rich 
poetic  blazonry,  just  flit  across  my  fancy ;  the  gorgeous  twilight 
window  which  he  has  painted  over  again  in  his  verse,  to  me  15 
"  blushes  "  almost  in  vain  "  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings." 
I  know  how  I  should  have  felt  at  one  time  in  reading  such 
passages  ;  and  that  is  all.    The  sharp  luscious  flavour,  the  fine 
aroma  is  fled,  and  nothing  but  the  stalk,  the  bran,  the  husk  of 
literature  is  left.    If  any  one  were  to  ask  me  what  I  read  now,  20 
I  might  answer  with  my  Lord  Hamlet  in  the  play  —  "  Words, 
words,  words."  —  "What  is  the  matter?"  —  ^^  Nothing!'"  — 
They  have  scarce  a  meaning.    But  it  was  not  always  so.    There 
was  a  time  when  to  my  thinking,  every  word  was  a  flower  or  a 
pearl,  like  those  which  dropped  from  the  mouth  of  the  little  25 
peasant-girl  in  the  Fairy  tale,  or  like  those  that  fall  from  the 
great  preacher  in  the  Caledonian  Chapel !    I  drank  of  the  stream 
of  knowledge  that  tempted,  but  did  not  mock  my  lips,  as  of  the 
river  of  life,  freely.    How  eagerly  I  slaked  my  thirst  of  German 
sentiment,  "  as  the  hart  that  panteth  for  the  water-springs ; "  30 
how  I  bathed  and  revelled,  and  added  my  floods  of  tears  to 
Gdethe's  Sorrows  of  Werter,  and  to  Schiller's  Robbers  — 

Giving  my  stock  of  more  to  that  which  had  too  much  ! 


I02  SELECTIONS   FROM    HAZLITT 

I   read,  and  assented  with  all  my  soul  to  Coleridge's  fine 

Sonnet,  beginning  — 

Schiller !  that  hour  I  would  have  wish'd  to  die, 
If  through  the  shuddering  midnight  I  had  sent, 
5  From  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  tow'r  time-rent, 

That  fearful  voice,  a  famish'd  father's  cry ! 

I  believe  I  may  date  my  insight  into  the  mysteries  of  poetry 
from  the  commencement  of  my  acquaintance  with  the  authors 
of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  ;  at  least,  my  discrimination  of  the  higher 

lo  sorts  —  not  my  predilection  for  such  writers  as  Goldsmith  or 
Pope :  nor  do  I  imagine  they  will  say  I  got  my  liking  for  the 
Novelists,  or  the  comic  writers, —  for  the  characters  of  Valentine, 
Tatde,  or  Miss  Prue,  from  them.  If  so,  I  must  have  got  from 
them  what  they  never  had  themselves.    In  points  where  poetic 

15  diction  and  conception  are  concerned,  I  may  be  at  a  loss,  and 
liable  to  be  imposed  upon:  but  in  forming  an  estimate  of 
passages  relating  to  common  life  and  manners,  I  cannot  think  I 
am  a  plagiarist  from  any  man.  I  there  "  know  my  cue  without 
a  prompter."    I  may  say  of  such  studies  —  Intus  et  in  cute.    I 

20  am  just  able  to  admire  those  literal  touches  of  observation  and 
description,  which  persons  of  loftier  pretensions  overlook  and 
despise.  I  think  I  comprehend  something  of  the  characteristic 
part  of  Shakspeare  ;  and  in  him  indeed,  all  is  characteristic,  even 
the  nonsense  and  poetry.    I  believe  it  was  the  celebrated  Sir 

25  Humphry  Davy  who  used  to  say,  that  Shakspeare  was  rather 
a  metaphysician  than  a  poet.  At  any  rate,  it  was  not  ill  said.  I 
wish  that  I  had  sooner  known  the  dramatic  writers  contempo- 
rary with  Shakspeare;  for  in  looking  them  over  about  a  year 
ago,  I  almost  revived  my  old  passion  for  reading,  and  my  old 

30  delight  in  books,  though  they  were  very  nearly  new  to  me. 
The  Periodical  Essayists  I  read  long  ago.  'J "he  Spectator  I 
liked  extremely :  but  the  Tatler  took  my  fancy  most,  I  read 
the  others  soon  after,  the  Rambler,  the  Adventurer,  the  World, 
the  Connoisseur :   I  was  not  sorry  to  get  to  the  end  of  them, 


ON  READING  OLD  BOOKS  103 

and  have  no  desire  to  go  regularly  through  them  again.  I  con- 
sider myself  a  thorough  adept  in  Richardson.  I  like  the  longest 
of  his  novels  best,  and  think  no  part  of  them  tedious ;  nor 
should  I  ask  to  have  any  thing  better  to  do  than  to  read  them 
from  beginning  to  end,  to  take  them  up  when  I  chose,  and  lay  $ 
them  down  when  I  was  tired,  in  some  old  family  mansion  in 
the  country,  till  every  word  and  syllable  relating  to  the  bright 
Clarissa,  the  divine  Clementina,  the  beautiful  Pamela,  "  with 
every  trick  and  line  of  their  sweet  favour,"  were  once  more 
"  graven  in  my  heart's  table."  ^  I  have  a  sneaking  kindness  for  10 
Mackenzie's  Julia  de  Roubigne  —  for  the  deserted  mansion,  and 
straggling  gilliflowers  on  the  mouldering  garden-wall ;  and  still 
more  for  his  Man  of  Feeling  ;  not  that  it  is  better,  nor  so  good  ; 
but  at  the  time  I  read  it,  I  sometimes  thought  of  the  heroine, 

Miss  Walton,  and  of  Miss together,  and  "that  ligament,  15 

fine  as  it  was,  was  never  broken  !  "  —  One  of  the  poets  that  I 
have  always  read  with  most  pleasure,  and  can  wander  about  in 
for  ever  with  a  sort  of  voluptuous  indolence,  is  Spenser ;  and  I 
like  Chaucer  even  better.  The  only  writer  among  the  Italians 
I  can  pretend  to  any  knowledge  of,  is  Boccaccio,  and  of  him  I  20 
cannot  express  half  my  admiration.  His  story  of  the  Hawk  I 
could  read  and  think  of  from  day  to  day,  just  as  I  would  look 
at  a  picture  of  Titian's  !  — 

I  remember,   as   long  ago    as   the  year    1798,  going   to   a 
neighbouring  town  (Shrewsbury,  where  Farquhar  has  laid  the  25 
plot  of  his  Recruiting  Officer)  and  bringing  home  with  me,  "  at 
one  proud  swoop,"  a  copy  of  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  and  another 
of  Burke's  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution  —  both  which 

1  During  the  peace  of  Amiens,  a  young  English  officer,  of  the  name  of  Love- 
lace, was  presented  at  Buonaparte's  levee.  Instead  of  the  usual  question, 
"  Where  have  you  served,  Sir  ? "  the  F"irst  Consul  immediately  addressed  him, 
"  I  perceive  your  name,  Sir,  is  the  same  as  that  of  the  hero  of  Richardson's 
Romance!"  Here  was  a  Consul.  The  young  man's  uncle,  who  was  called 
Lovelace,  told  me  this  anecdote  while  we  were  stopping  together  at  Calais.  I 
had  also  been  thinking  that  his  was  the  same  name  as  that  of  the  hero  of 
Richardson's  Romance.   This  is  one  of  my  reasons  for  liking  Buonaparte. 


I04  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

1  have  still ;  and  I  still  recollect,  when  I  see  the  covers,  the 
pleasure  with  which  I  dipped  into  them  as  I  returned  with  my 
double  prize.  I  was  set  up  for  one  while.  That  time  is  past 
"  with  all  its  giddy  raptures  :  "  but  I  am  still  anxious  to  preserve 
5  its  memory,  "  embalmed  with  odours."  —  With  respect  to  the 
first  of  these  works,  I  would  be  permitted  to  remark  here  in 
passing,  that  it  is  a  sufficient  answer  to  the  German  criticism 
which  has  since  been  started  against  the  character  of  Satan 
(i)iz.  that  it  is  not  one  of  disgusting  deformity,  or  pure,  defecated 
lo  malice)  to  say  that  Milton  has  there  drawn,  not  the  abstract 
principle  of  evil,  not  a  devil  incarnate,  but  a  fallen  angel.  This 
is  the  scriptural  account,  and  the  poet  has  followed  it.  We  may 
safely  retain  such  passages  as  that  well-known  one  — 

His  form  had  not  yet  lost 

15  All  her  original  brightness  ;  nor  appear'd 

Less  than  archangel  ruin'd  ;  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscur'd  — 

for  the  theory,  which  is  opposed  to  them,  "  falls  flat  upon  the 
grunsel  edge,  and  shames  its  worshippers."    Let  us  hear  no 

20  more  then  of  this  monkish  cant,  and  bigoted  outcry  for  the 
restoration  of  the  horns  and  tail  of  the  devil !  —  Again,  as  to  the 
other  work,  Burke's  Reflections,  I  took  a  particular  pride  and 
pleasure  in  it,  and  read  it  to  myself  and  others  for  months 
afterwards.    I  had  reason  for  my  prejudice  in  favour  of  this 

25  author.  To  understand  an  adversary  is  some  praise :  to  admire 
him  is  more.  I  thought  I  did  both :  I  knew  I  did  one.  From 
the  first  time  I  ever  cast  my  eyes  on  any  thing  of  Burke's  (which 
was  an  extract  from  his  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord  in  a  three-times 
a  week  paper,  The  St.  James's  Chronicle,  in  1796),  I  said  to 

30  myself,  "  This  is  true  eloquence :  this  is  a  man  pouring  out  his 
mind  on  paper."  All  other  style  seemed  to  me  pedantic  and 
impertinent.  1  )r.  Johnson's  was  walking  on  stilts ;  and  even 
Junius's  (who  was  at  that  time  a  favourite  with  me)  with  all  his 
terseness,  shrunk  up  into  little  antithetic  points  and  well-trimmed 


ON  READING  OLD  BOOKS  105 

sentences.  But  Burke's  style  was  forked  and  playful  as  the 
lightning,  crested  like  the  serpent.  He  delivered  plain  things 
on  a  plain  ground ;  but  when  he  rose,  there  was  no  end  of  his 
flights  and  circumgyrations  —  and  in  this  very  Letter,  "  he,  like 
an  eagle  in  a  dove-cot,  fluttered  his  Volscians"  (the  Duke  of  5 
Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale)  ^  "  in  Corioli."  I  did  not 
care  for  his  doctrines.  I  was  then,  and  am  still,  proof  against 
their  contagion ;  but  I  admired  the  author,  and  was  considered 
as  not  a  very  staunch  partisan  of  the  opposite  side,  though  I 
thought  myself  that  an  abstract  proposition  was  one  thing  —  a  10 
masterly  transition,  a  brilliant  metaphor,  another.  I  conceived 
too  that  he  might  be  wrong  in  his  main  argument,  and  yet 
deliver  fifty  truths  in  arriving  at  a  false  conclusion.  I  remember 
Coleridge  assuring  me,  as  a  poetical  and  political  set-off  to  my 
sceptical  admiration,  that  Wordsworth  had  written  an  Essay  on  15 
Marriage,  which,  for  manly  thought  and  nervous  expression,  he 
deemed  incomparably  superior.  As  I  had  not,  at  that  time, 
seen  any  specimens  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  prose  style,  I  could 
not  express  my  doubts  on  the  subject.  If  there  are  greater 
prose-writers  than  Burke,  they  either  lie  out  of  my  course  of  20 
study,  or  are  beyond  my  sphere  of  comprehension.  I  am  too 
old  to  be  a  convert  to  a  new  mythology  of  genius.  The  niches 
are  occupied,  the  tables  are  full.  If  such  is  still  my  admiration 
of  this  man's  misapplied  powers,  what  must  it  have  been  at  a 
time  when  I  myself  was  in  vain  trying,  year  after  year,  to  write  25 
a  single  Essay,  nay,  a  single  page  or  sentence  ;  when  I  regarded 
the  wonders  of  his  pen  with  the  longing  eyes  of  one  who  was 
dumb  and  a  changeling ;  and  when,  to  be  able  to  convey  the 
slightest  conception  of  my  meaning  to  others  in  words,  was  the 
height  of  an  almost  hopeless  ambition  I  But  I  never  measured  30 
others'  excellences  by  my  own  defects :  though  a  sense  of  my 
own  incapacity,  and  of  the  steep,  impassable  ascent  from  me 
to  them,  made  me  regard  them  with  greater  awe  and  fondness. 

1  He  is  there  called  "  Citizen  Lauderdale."    Is  this  the  present  Earl  ? 


I06  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

I  have  thus  run  tiirough  most  of  my  early  studies  and  favourite 
authors,  some  of  whom  I  have  since  criticised  more  at  large. 
Whether  those  observations  will  survive  me,  I  neither  know  nor 
do  I  much  care  :  but  to  the  works  themselves,  ''"  worthy  of  all 

5  acceptation,"  and  to  the  feelings  they  have  always  excited  in 
me  since  I  could  distinguish  a  meaning  in  language,  nothing 
shall  ever  prevent  me  from  looking  back  with  gratitude  and 
triumph.  To  have  lived  in  the  cultivation  of  an  intimacy  with 
such  works,  and  to  have  familiarly  relished  such  names,  is  not 

10  to  have  lived  quite  in  vain. 

There  are  other  authors  whom  I  have  never  read,  and  yet 
whom  I  have  frequently  had  a  great  desire  to  read,  from  some 
circumstance  relating  to  them.  Among  these  is  Lord  Claren- 
don's History  of  the  Grand  Rebellion,  after  which  I  have  a 

15  hankering,  from  hearing  it  spoken  of  by  good  judges  —  from 
my  interest  in  the  events,  and  knowledge  of  the  characters 
from  other  sources,  and  from  having  seen  fine  portraits  of  most 
of  them.  I  like  to  read  a  well-penned  character,  and  Clarendon 
is  said  to  have  been  a  master  in  this  way.    I  should  like  to  read 

20  Froissart's  Chronicles,  Hollingshed  and  Stowe,  and  Fuller's 
Worthies.  I  intend,  whenever  I  can,  to  read  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  all  through.  There  are  fifty-two  of  their  plays,  and  I 
have  only  read  a  dozen  or  fourteen  of  them.  A  Wife  for  a 
Month,  and  Thierry  and  Theodoret,  are,  I  am  told,  delicious, 

25  and  I  can  believe  it.  I  should  like  to  read  the  speeches  in 
Thucydides,  and  Guicciardini's  History  of  Florence,  and  Don 
Quixote  in  the  original.  I  have  often  thought  of  reading  the 
Loves  of  Persiles  and  Sigismunda,  and  the  Galatea  of  the  same 
author.    But  1  somehow  reserve  them  like  "  another  Yarrow." 

30  I  should  also  like  to  read  the  last  new  novel  (if  I  could  be  sure 
it  was  so)  of  the  author  of  Waverley :  —  no  one  would  be  more 
glad  than  I  to  find  it  the  best !  — 


ON  A  LANDSCAPE   OF  NICOLAS   POUSSIN 

"And  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn." 

Orion,  the  subject  of  this  landscape,  was  the  classical  Nim- 
rod ;  and  is  called  by  Homer,  "  a  hunter  of  shadows,  himself 
a  shade."  He  was  the  son  of  Neptune  ;  and  having  lost  an  eye 
in  some  affray  between  the  Gods  and  men,  was  told  that  if  he  5 
would  go  to  meet  the  rising  sun,  he  would  recover  his  sight. 
He  is  represented  setting  out  on  his  journey,  with  men  on  his 
shoulders  to  guide  him,  a  bow  in  his  hand,  and  Diana  in  the 
clouds  greeting  him.  He  stalks  along,  a  giant  upon  earth,  and 
reels  and  falters  in  his  gait,  as  if  just  awaked  out  of  sleep,  or  10 
uncertain  of  his  way  ;  —  you  see  his  blindness,  though  his  back 
is  turned.  Mists  rise  around  him,  and  veil  the  sides  of  the  green 
forests ;  earth  is  dank  and  fresh  with  dews,  the  "  grey  dawn 
and  the  Pleiades  before  him  dance,"  and  in  the  distance  are 
seen  the  blue  hills  and  sullen  ocean.  Nothing  was  ever  more  15 
finely  conceived  or  done.  It  breathes  the  spirit  of  the  morning ; 
its  moisture,  its  repose,  its  obscurity,  waiting  the  miracle  of 
light  to  kindle  it  into  smiles :  the  whole  is,  like  the  principal 
figure  in  it,  "  a  forerunner  of  the  dawn."  The  same  atmosphere 
tinges  and  imbues  every  object,  the  same  dull  light  "  shadowy  20 
sets  off "  the  face  of  nature  :  one  feeling  of  vastness,  of  strange- 
ness, and  of  primeval  forms  pervades  the  painter's  canvas,  and 
we  are  thrown  back  upon  the  first  integrity  of  things.  This 
great  and  learned  man  might  be  said  to  see  nature  through  the 
glass  of  time :  he  alone  has  a  right  to  be  considered  as  the  25 
painter  of  classical  antiquity.  Sir  Joshua  has  done  him  justice 
in  this  respect.  He  could  give  to  the  scenery  of  his  heroic 
fables  that  unimpaired  look  of  original  nature,  full,  solid,  large, 

107 


I08  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

luxuriant,  teeming  with  life  and  power ;  or  deck  it  with  all  the 
pomp  of  art,  with  temples  and  towers,  and  mythologic  groves. 
His  pictures  "  denote  a  foregone  conclusion."  He  applies  nature 
to  his  purposes,  works  out  her  images  according  to  the  standard 
5  of  his  thoughts,  embodies  high  fictions  ;  and  the  first  conception 
being  given,  all  the  rest  seems  to  grow  out  of,  and  be  assimilated 
to  it,  by  the  unfailing  process  of  a  studious  imagination.  Like 
his  own  Orion,  he  overlooks  the  surrounding  scene,  appears 
to  "  take  up  the  isles  as  a  very  little  thing,  and  to  lay  the  earth 

lo  in  a  balance."  With  a  laborious  and  mighty  grasp,  he  put 
nature  into  the  mould  of  the  ideal  and  antique  ;  and  was  among 
painters  (more  than  any  one  else)  what  Milton  was  among  poets. 
There  is  in  both  something  of  the  same  pedantry,  the  same 
stiffness,   the  same  elevation,   the  same   grandeur,   the   same 

15  mixture  of  art  and  nature,  the  same  richness  of  borrowed 
materials,  the  same  unity  of  character.  Neither  the  poet  nor 
the  painter  lowered  the  subjects  they  treated,  but  filled  up  the 
outline  in  the  fancy,  and  added  strength  and  reality  to  it ;  and 
thus  not  only  satisfied,  but  surpassed  the  expectations  of  the 

20  spectator  and  the  reader.  This  is  held  for  the  triumph  and  the 
perfection  of  works  of  art.  To  give  us  nature,  such  as  we  see 
it,  is  well  and  deserving  of  praise ;  to  give  us  nature,  such  as 
we  have  never  seen,  but  have  often  wished  to  see  it,  is  better, 
and  deserving  of  higher  praise.    He  who  can  show  the  world 

25  in  its  first  naked  glory,  with  the  hues  of  fancy  spread  over  it, 
or  in  its  high  and  palmy  state,  with  the  gravity  of  history 
stamped  on  the  proud  monuments  of  vanished  empire,  —  who, 
by  his  "  so  potent  art,"  can  recal  time  past,  transport  us  to 
distant  places,  and  join  the  regions  of  imagination  (a  new  con- 

30  quest)  to  those  of  reality,  —  who  shows  us  not  only  what  nature 
is,  but  what  she  has  been,  and  is  capable  of,  —  he  who  does 
this,  and  does  it  with  simplicity,  with  truth,  and  grandeur,  is 
lord  of  nature  and  her  powers  ;  and  his  mind  is  universal,  and 
his  art  the  master-art  I 


ON  A  LANDSCAPE  OF  NICOLAS   POUSSIN        109 

There  is  nothing  in  this  "  more  than  natural,"  if  criticism 
could  be  persuaded  to  think  so.  The  historic  painter  does  not 
neglect  or  contravene  nature,  but  follows  her  more  closely  up 
into  her  fantastic  heights,  or  hidden  recesses.  He  demonstrates 
what  she  would  be  in  conceivable  circumstances,  and  under  5 
implied  conditions.  He  "  gives  to  airy  nothing  a  local  habita- 
tion," not  "  a  name."  At  his  touch,  words  start  up  into  images, 
thoughts  become  things.  He  clothes  a  dream,  a  phantom  with 
form  and  colour  and  the  wholesome  attributes  of  reality.  His 
art  is  a  second  nature ;  not  a  different  one.  There  are  those,  10 
indeed,  who  think  that  not  to  copy  nature,  is  the  rule  for  attain- 
ing perfection.  Because  they  cannot  paint  the  objects  which 
they  have  seen,  they  fancy  themselves  qualified  to  paint  the 
ideas  which  they  have  not  seen.  But  it  is  possible  to  fail  in  this 
latter  and  more  difficult  style  of  imitation,  as  well  as  in  the  15 
former  humbler  one.  The  detection,  it  is  true,  is  not  so  easy, 
because  the  objects  are  not  so  nigh  at  hand  to  compare,  and 
therefore  there  is  more  room  both  for  false  pretension  and  for 
self-deceit.  They  take  an  epic  motto  or  subject,  and  conclude 
that  the  spirit  is  implied  as  a  thing  of  course.  They  paint  20 
inferior  portraits,  maudlin  lifeless  faces,  without  ordinarj'  ex- 
pression, or  one  look,  feature,  or  particle  of  nature  in  them, 
and  think  that  this  is  to  rise  to  the  truth  of  history.  They 
vulgarise  and  degrade  whatever  is  interesting  or  sacred  to  the 
mind,  and  suppose  that  they  thus  add  to  the  dignity  of  their  25 
profession.  They  represent  a  face  that  seems  as  if  no  thought 
or  feeling  of  any  kind  had  ever  passed  through  it,  and  would 
have  you  believe  that  this  is  the  very  sublime  of  expression, 
such  as  it  would  appear  in  heroes,  or  demi-gods  of  old,  when 
rapture  or  agony  was  raised  to  its  height.  They  show  you  30 
a  landscape  that  looks  as  if  the  sun  never  shone  upon  it,  and 
tell  you  that  it  is  not  modern  —  that  so  earth  looked  when 
Titan  first  kissed  it  with  his  rays.  This  is  not  the  true  ideal. 
It  is  not  to  fill  the  moulds  of  the  imagination,  but  to  deface  and 


no  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

injure  them  :  it  is  not  to  come  up  to,  but  to  fall  short  of  the 
poorest  conception  in  the  public  mind.  Such  pictures  should 
not  be  hung  in  the  same  room  with  that  of  Orion.  ^ 

Poussin  was,  of  all  painters,  the  most  poetical.  He  was  the 
5  painter  of  ideas.  No  one  ever  told  a  story  half  so  well,  nor  so 
well  knew  what  was  capable  of  being  told  by  the  pencil.  He 
seized  on,  and  struck  off  with  grace  and  precision,  just  that  point 
of  view  which  would  be  likely  to  catch  the  reader's  fancy.  There 
is  a  significance,  a  consciousness  in  whatever  he  does  (sometimes 

10  a  vice,  but  oftener  a  virtue)  beyond  any  other  painter.  His  Giants 
sitting  on  the  tops  of  craggy  mountains,  as  huge  themselves,  and 
playing  idly  on  their  Pan's-pipes,  seem  to  have  been  seated  there 
these  three  thousand  years,  and  to  know  the  beginning  and  the 
end  of  their  own  story.    An  infant  Bacchus  or  Jupiter  is  big  with 

15  his  future  destiny.  Even  inanimate  and  dumb  things  speak  a 
language  of  their  own.  His  snakes,  the  messengers  of  fate,  are 
inspired  with  human  intellect.  His  trees  grow  and  expand  their 
leaves  in  the  air,  glad  of  the  rain,  proud  of  the  sun,  awake  to 

'  1  Every  thing  tends  to  show  the  manner  in  which  a  great  artist  is  formed.  If 
any  person  could  claim  an  exemption  from  the  careful  imitation  of  individual 
objects,  it  was  Nicolas  Poussin.  He  studied  the  antique,  but  he  also  studied 
nature.  "  I  have  often  admired,"  says  Vignuel  de  Marville,  who  knew  him  at  a 
late  period  of  his  life,  '■  the  love  he  had  for  his  art.  Old  as  he  was,  1  frequently 
saw  him  among  the  ruins  of  ancient  Rome,  out  in  the  Campagna,  or  along  the 
banks  of  the  Tyber,  sketching  a  scene  that  had  pleased  him  ;  and  I  often  met  him 
with  his  handkerchief  full  of  stones,  moss,  or  flowers,  which  he  carried  home,  that 
he  might  copy  them  exactly  from  nature.  One  day  1  asked  him  how  he  had 
attained  to  such  a  degree  of  perfection,  as  to  have  gained  so  high  a  rank  among 
the  great  painters  of  Italy?  He  answered,  I  have  neglected  nothing."  — 
See  his  Life  lately  published.  It  appears  from  this  account  that  he  had  not  fallen 
into  a  recent  error,  that  Nature  puts  the  man  of  genius  out.  As  a  contrast  to  the 
foregoing  description,  I  might  mention,  that  I  remember  an  old  gentleman  once 
asking  Mr.  West  in  the  British  Gallery,  if  he  had  ever  been  at  Athens  ?  To  which 
the  President  made  answer,  No  ;  nor  did  he  feel  any  great  desire  to  go  ;  for  that 
he  thought  he  had  as  good  an  idea  of  the  place  from  the  Catalogue,  as  he  could 
get  by  living  there  for  any  number  of  years.  What  would  he  have  said,  if  any  one 
had  told  him,  he  could  get  as  good  an  idea  of  the  subject  of  one  of  his  great  works 
from  reading  the  Catalogue  of  it,  as  from  seeing  the  picture  itself !  Yet  the  answer 
was  characteristic  of  the  genius  of  the  painter. 


ON  A  LANDSCAPE  OF  NICOLAS  POUSSIN        ill 

the  winds  of  heaven.  In  his  Plague  of  Athens,  the  very  buildings 
seem  stiff  with  horror.  His  picture  of  the  Deluge  is,  perhaps, 
the  finest  historical  landscape  in  the  world.  You  see  a  waste  of 
waters,  wide,  interminable  :  the  sun  is  labouring,  wan  and  weary, 
up  the  sky ;  the  clouds,  dull  and  leaden,  lie  like  a  load  upon  the  5 
eye,  and  heaven  and  earth  seem  commingling  into  one  confused 
mass  !  His  human  figures  are  sometimes  "  o'er-informed  "  with 
this  kind  of  feeling.  Their  actions  have  too  much  gesticulation, 
and  the  set  expression  of  the  features  borders  too  much  on  the 
mechanical  and  caricatured  style.  In  this  respect,  they  form  a  10 
contrast  to  Raphael's,  whose  figures  never  appear  to  be  sitting 
for  their  pictures,  or  to  be  conscious  of  a  spectator,  or  to  have 
come  from  the  painter's  hand.  In  Nicolas  Poussin,  on  the  con- 
trary, every  thing  seems  to  have  a  distinct  understanding  with 
the  artist;  "  the  very  stones  prate  of  their  whereabout:  "  each  15 
object  has  its  part  and  place  assigned,  and  is  in  a  sort  of  com- 
pact with  the  rest  of  the  picture.  It  is  this  conscious  keeping, 
and,  as  it  were,  internal  design,  that  gives  their  peculiar  char- 
acter to  the  works  of  this  artist.  There  was  a  picture  of  Aurora 
in  the  British  Gallery  a  year  or  two  ago.  It  was  a  suffusion  of  20 
golden  light.  The  Goddess  wore  her  saffron-coloured  robes,  and 
appeared  just  risen  from  the  gloomy  bed  of  old  Tithonus.  Her 
very  steeds,  milk-white,  were  tinged  with  the  yellow  dawn.  It  was 
a  personification  of  the  morning.  —  Poussin  succeeded  better  in 
classic  than  in  sacred  subjects.  The  latter  are  comparatively  25 
heavy,  forced,  full  of  violent  contrasts  of  colour,  of  red,  blue, 
and  black,  and  without  the  true  prophetic  inspiration  of  the  char- 
acters. But  in  his  Pagan  allegories  and  fables  he  was  quite  at 
home.  The  native  gravity  and  native  levity  of  the  Frenchman 
were  combined  with  Italian  scenery  and  an  antique  gusto,  and  30 
gave  even  to  his  colouring  an  air  of  learned  indifference.  He 
wants,  in  one  respect,  grace,  form,  expression  ;  but  he  has  every 
where  sense  and  meaning,  perfect  costume  and  propriety.  His 
personages  always  belong  to  the  class  and  time  represented,  and 


112  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

are  strictly  versed  in  the  business  in  hand.  His  grotesque  com- 
positions in  particular,  his  Nymphs  and  Fauns,  are  superior  (at 
least,  as  far  as  style  is  concerned)  even  to  those  of  Rubens.  They 
are  taken  more  immediately  out  of  fabulous  history.  Rubens's 
5  Satyrs  and  Bacchantes  have  a  more  jovial  and  voluptuous  aspect, 
are  more  drunk  with  pleasure,  more  full  of  animal  spirits  and 
riotous  impulses  ;  they  laugh  and  bound  along  — 

Leaping  like  wanton  kids  in  pleasant  spring : 

but  those  of  Poussin  have  more  of  the  intellectual  part  of  the 

lo  character,  and  seem  vicious  on  reflection,  and  of  set  purpose. 
Rubens's  are  noble  specimens  of  a  class ;  Poussin's  are  allegor- 
ical abstractions  of  the  -same  class,  with  bodies  less  pampered, 
but  with  minds  more  secretly  depraved.  The  Bacchanalian 
groups  of  the  Flemish  painter  were,  however,  his  masterpieces 

15  in  composition.  Witness  those  prodigies  of  colour,  character, 
and  expression  at  Blenheim.  In  the  more  chaste  and  refined 
delineation  of  classic  fable,  Poussin  was  without  a  rival.  Rubens, 
who  was  a  match  for  him  in  the  wild  and  picturesque,  could  not 
pretend  to  vie  with  the  elegance  and  purity  of  thought  in  his 

20  picture  of  Apollo  giving  a  poet  a  cup  of  water  to  drink,  nor  with 
the  gracefulness  of  design  in  the  figure  of  a  nymph  squeezing 
the  juice  of  a  bunch  of  grapes  from  her  fingers  (a  rosy  wine- 
press) which  falls  into  the  mouth  of  a  chubby  infant  below.  But, 
above  all,  who  shall  celebrate,  in  terms  of  fit  praise,  his  picture 

25  of  the  shepherds  in  the  Vale  of  Tempe  going  out  in  a  fine  morn- 
ing of  the  spring,  and  coming  to  a  tomb  with  this  inscription  :  — 
Et  kc.o  in  Arcadia  vixi  !  The  eager  curiosity  of  some,  the 
expression  of  others  who  start  back  with  fear  and  surprise,  the 
clear  breeze  playing  with  the  branches  of  the  shadowing  trees, 

3°  "  the  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  zephyrs  use,"  the  distant,  un- 
interrupted, sunny  prospects  speak  (and  for  ever  will  speak  on) 
of  ages  past  to  ages  yet  to  come  !  ^ 

1  Poussin  has  repeated  this  subject  more  than  once,  and  appears  to  have  revelled 
in  its  witcheries.    I  have  before  alluded  to  it,  and  may  again.    It  is  hard  iliat  we 


ON  A  LANDSCAPE  OF  NICOLAS  POUSSIN        1 13 

Pictures  are  a  set  of  chosen  images,  a  stream  of  pleasant 
thoughts  passing  through  the  mind.    It  is  a  luxury  to  have  the 
walls  of  our  rooms  hung  round  with  them,  and  no  less  so  to  have 
such  a  gallery  in  the  mind,  to  con  over  the  relics  of  ancient  art 
bound  up  "  within  the  book  and  volume  of  the  brain,  unmixed  5 
(if  it  were  possible)  with  baser  matter !  "    A  life  passed  among 
pictures,  in  the  study  and  the  love  of  art,  is  a  happy  noiseless 
dream  :  or  rather,  it  is  to  dream  and  to  be  awake  at  the  same 
time ;  for  it  has  all  "  the  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss,"  with 
the  romantic  voluptuousness  of  a  visionary  and  abstracted  being.  10 
They  are  the  bright  consummate  essences  of  things,  and  "  he 
who  knows  of  these  delights  to  taste  and  interpose  them  oft,  is 
not  unwise  1 "  —  The  Orion,  which  I  have  here  taken  occasion 
to  descant  upon,  is  one  of  a  collection  of  excellent  pictures,  as 
this  collection  is  itself  one  of  a  series  from  the  old  masters,  which  1 5 
have  for  some  years  back  embrowned  the  walls  of  the  British 
Gallery,  and  enriched  the  public  eye.  What  hues  (those  of  nature 
mellowed  by  time)  breathe  around,  as  we  enter  !  What  forms  are 
there,  woven  into  the  memory !    What  looks,  which  only  the 
answering  looks  of  the  spectator  can  express  !   What  intellectual  20 
stores  have  been  yearly  poured  forth  from  the  shrine  of  ancient 
art  1    The  works  are  various,  but  the  names  the  same  —  heaps 
of  Rembrandts  frowning  from  the  darkened  walls,  Rubens 's  glad 
gorgeous  groups,  Titians  more  rich  and  rare,  Claudes  always 
exquisite,   sometimes   beyond  compare,   Guido's  endless  cloy-  25 
ing  sweetness,  the  learning  of  Poussin  and  the  Caracci,  and 
Raphael's  princely  magnificence,  crowning  all.   We  read  certain 
letters  and  syllables  in  the  catalogue,  and  at  the  well-known 
magic  sound,  a  miracle  of  skill  and  beauty  starts  to  view.    One 
might  think  that  one  year's  prodigal  display  of  such  perfection  30 
would  exhaust  the   labours  of  one  man's  life;    but  the  next 
year,  and  the  next  to  that,  we  find  another  harvest  reaped  and 

should  not  be  allowed  to  dwell  as  often  as  we  please  on  what  delights  us,  when 
things  that  are  disagreeable  recur  so  often  against  our  will. 


114  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

gathered  in  to  the  great  garner  of  art,  by  the  same  immortal 

hands  — 

Old  Genius  the  porter  of  them  was ; 
He  letteth  in,  he  letteth  out  to  wend. — 

5  Their  works  seem  endless  as  their  reputation  —  to  be  many  as 
they  are  complete  —  to  multiply  with  the  desire  of  the  mind  to 
see  more  and  more  of  them  ;  as  if  there  were  a  living  power  in 
the  breath  of  Fame,  and  in  the  very  names  of  the  great  heirs  of 
glory  "  there  were  propagation  too !  "    It  is  something  to  have 

lo  a  collection  of  this  sort  to  count  upon  once  a  year ;  to  have  one 
last,  lingering  look  yet  to  come.  Pictures  are  scattered  like  stray 
gifts  through  the  world ;  and  while  they  remain,  earth  has  yet  a 
little  gilding  left,  not  quite  rubbed  off,  dishonoured,  and  defaced. 
There  are  plenty  of  standard  works  still  to  be  found  in  this 

15  country,  in  the  collections  at  Blenheim,  at  Burleigh,  and  in  those 
belonging  to  Mr.  Angerstein,  Lord  Grosvenor,  the  Marquis  of 
Stafford,  and  others,  to  keep  up  this  treat  to  the  lovers  of  art 
for  many  years :  and  it  is  the  more  desirable  to  reserve  a  priv- 
ileged sanctuary  of  this  sort,  where  the  eye  may  dote,  and  the 

20  heart  take  its  fill  of  such  pictures  as  Poussin's  Orion,  since  the 
Louvre  is  stripped  of  its  triumphant  spoils,  and  since  he,  who 
collected  it,  and  wore  it  as  a  rich  jewel  in  his  Iron  Crown,  the 
hunter  of  greatness  and  of  glory,  is  himself  a  shade  !  — 


ON  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH 

"  And  our  little  life  is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

Perhaps  the  best  cure  for  the  fear  of  death  is  to  reflect  that 
life  has  a  beginning  as  well  as  an  end.  There  was  a  time  when 
we  were  not :  this  gives  us  no  concern  —  why  then  should  it 
trouble  us  that  a  time  will  come  when  we  shall  cease  to  be  ?  I  5 
have  no  wish  to  have  been  alive  a  hundred  years  ago,  or  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Anne :  why  should  I  regret  and  lay  it  so  much 
to  heart  that  I  shall  not  be  alive  a  hundred  years  hence,  in  the 
reign  of  I  cannot  tell  whom .? 

When  Bickerstaff  wrote  his  Essays,  I  knew  nothing  of  the  10 
subjects  of   them :    nay,  much   later,  and   but   the  other   day, 
as  it  were,  in  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of  George  III.  when 
Goldsmith,  Johnson,  Burke,  used  to  meet  at  the  Globe,  when 
Garrick  was  in  his  glory,  and  Reynolds  was  over  head  and  ears 
with    his   portraits,   and    Sterne    brought   out   the  volumes   of  15 
Tristram  Shandy  year  by  year,  it  was  without  consulting  me : 
I  had  not  the  slightest  intimation  of  what  was  going  on :   the 
debates  in  the  House  of  Commons  on  the  American  war,  or 
the  firing  at   Bunker's  hill,  disturbed   not  me :   yet  I   thought 
this  no  evil  —  I  neither  ate,  drank,  nor  was  merry,  yet  I  did  20 
not  complain  :    I   had  not  then  looked  out  into  this  breathing 
world,  yet  I  was  well ;  and  the  world  did  quite  as  well  without 
me  as  I  did  without  it !    Why  then  should  I  make  all  this  out- 
cry about  parting  with  it,  and  being  no  worse  off  than  1  was 
before  ?    There  is  nothing  in  the  recollection  that  at  a  certain  25 
time  we  were  not  come  into  the  world,  that  "  the  gorge  rises 
at " —  why  should  we  revolt  at  the  idea  that  we  must  one  day 
go  out  of  it  ?    To  die  is  only  to  be  as  we  were  before  we  were 

"5 


Il6  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

born ;  yet  no  one  feels  any  remorse,  or  regret,  or  repugnance, 
in  contemplating  this  last  idea.  It  is  rather  a  relief  and  dis- 
burthening  of  the  mind :  it  seems  to  have  been  holiday-time 
with  us  then :  we  were  not  called  to  appear  upon  the  stage 
5  of  life,  to  wear  robes  or  tatters,  to  laugh  or  cry,  be  hooted 
or  applauded ;  we  had  lain  perdus  all  this  while,  snug,  out 
of  harm's  way ;  and  had  slept  out  our  thousands  of  centuries 
without  wanting  to  be  waked  up ;  at  peace  and  free  from 
care,  in  a  long  nonage,  in  a  sleep  deeper  and  calmer  than 

10  that  of  infancy,  wrapped  in  the  softest  and  finest  dust.  And 
the  worst  that  we  dread  is,  after  a  short,  fretful,  feverish  being, 
after  vain  hopes,  and  idle  fears,  to  sink  to  final  repose  again, 
and  forget  the  troubled  dream  of  life !  .  .  .  Ye  armed  men, 
knights  templars,  that  sleep  in  the  stone  aisles   of  that  old 

15  Temple  church,  where  all  is  silent  above,  and  where  a  deeper 
silence  reigns  below  (not  broken  by  the  pealing  organ),  are  ye 
not  contented  where  ye  lie  ?  Or  would  you  come  out  of  your 
long  homes  to  go  to  the  Holy  War  ?  Or  do  ye  complain  that 
pain  no  longer  visits   you,  that  sickness  has  done  its  worst, 

20  that  you  have  paid  the  last  debt  to  nature,  that  you  hear  no 
more  of  the  thickening  phalanx  of  the  foe,  or  your  lady's  wan- 
ing love ;  and  that  while  this  ball  of  earth  rolls  its  eternal 
round,  no  sound  shall  ever  pierce  through  to  disturb  your  last- 
ing repose,  fixed  as  the  marble  over  your  tombs,  breathless  as 

25  the  grave  that  holds  you !  And  thou,  oh !  thou,  to  whom  my 
heart  turns,  and  will  turn  while  it  has  feeling  left,  who  didst 
love  in  vain,  and  whose  first  was  thy  last  sigh,  wilt  not  thou  too 
rest  in  peace  (or  wilt  thou  cry  to  me  complaining  from  thy  clay- 
cold  bed)  when  that  sad  heart  is  no  longer  sad,  and  that  sorrow 

30  is  dead  which  thou  wcrt  (jnly  called  into  the  world  to  feel ! 

It  is  certain  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  idea  of  a  pre-existent 
state  that  excites  our  longing  like  the  prospect  of  a  posthumous 
existence.  We  arc  satisfied  to  have  begun  life  when  wc  did ; 
we  have  no  ambition  to  have  set  out  on  our  journey  sooner; 


ON  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH 


117 


and  feel  that  we  have  had  quite  enough  to  do  to  battle  our  way 
through  since.    We  cannot  say, 

•  "  The  wars  we  well  remember  of  King  Nine, 
Of  old  Assaracus  and  Inachus  divine." 

Neither  have  we  any  wish :  we  are  contented  to  read  of  them  5 
in  story,  and  to  stand  and  gaze  at  the  vast  sea  of  time  that 
separates  us  from  them.  It  was  early  days  then :  the  world 
was  not  avell-aired  enough  for  us :  we  have  no  inclination  to 
have  been  up  and  stirring.  We  do  not  consider  the  six  thou- 
sand years  of  the  world  before  we  were  bom  as  so  much  time  10 
lost  to  us :  we  are  perfectly  indifferent  about  the  matter.  We 
do  not  grieve  and  lament  that  we  did  not  happen  to  be  in  time 
to  see  the  grand  mask  and  pageant  of  human  life  going  on  in 
all  that  period ;  though  we  are  mortified  at  being  obliged  to 
quit  our  stand  before  the  rest  of  the  procession  passes.  15 

It  may  be  suggested  in  explanation  of  this  difference,  that  we 
know  from  various  records  and  traditions  what  happened  in  the 
time  of  Queen  Anne,  or  even  in  the  reigns  of  the  Assyrian 
monarchs  :  but  that  we  have  no  means  of  ascertaining  what  is 
to  happen  hereafter  but  by  awaiting  the  event,  and  that  our  20 
eagerness  and  curiosity  are  sharpened  in  proportion  as  we  are 
in  the  dark  about  it.  This  is  not  at  all  the  case;  for  at  that 
rate  we  should  be  constantly  wishing  to  make  a  voyage  of 
discovery  to  Greenland  or  to  the  Moon,  neither  of  which  we 
have,  in  general,  the  least  desire  to  do.  Neither,  in  truth,  have  25 
we  any  particular  solicitude  to  pry  into  the  secrets  of  futurity, 
but  as  a  pretext  for  prolonging  our  own  existence.  It  is  not  so 
much  that  we  care  to  be  alive  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  years 
hence,  any  more  than  to  have  been  alive  a  hundred  or  a  thou- 
sand years  ago  :  but  the  thing  lies  here,  that  we  would  all  of  us  30 
wish  the  present  moment  to  last  for  ever.  We  would  be  as  we 
are,  and  would  have  the  world  remain  just  as  it  is,  to  please  us. 

"  The  present  eye  catches  the  present  object  " — 


Il8  SELECTIONS   FROM  HAZLITT 

to  have  and  to  hold  while  it  may ;  and  abhors,  on  any  terms,  to 
have  it  torn  from  us,  and  nothing  left  in  its  room.  It  is  the 
pang  of  parting,  the  unloosing  our  grasp,  the  breaking  asunder 
some  strong  tie,  the  leaving  some  cherished  purpose  unfulfilled, 
5  that  creates  the  repugnance  to  go,  and  "  makes  calamity  of  so 
long  life,"  as  it  often  is. 

"  Oh  !  thou  strong  heart ! 


There's  such  a  covenant  'twixt  the  world  and  thee, 
They're  loth  to  break  !  " 

lo  The  love  of  life,  then,  is  an  habitual  attachment,  not  an  abstract 
principle.  Simply  to  be  does  not  "  content  man's  natural  de-' 
sire :  "  we  long  to  be  in  a  certain  time,  place,  and  circumstance. 
We  would  much  rather  be  now,  "  on  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time," 
than  have  our  choice  of  any  future  period,  than  take  a  slice  of 

15  fifty  or  sixty  years  out  of  the  Millennium,  for  instance.  This 
shows  that  our  attachment  is  not  confined  either  to  being  or  to 
well-being :  but  that  we  have  an  inveterate  prejudice  in  favour  of 
our  immediate  existence,  such  as  it  is.  The  mountaineer  will 
not  leave  his  rock,  nor  the  savage  his  hut ;  neither  are  we  will- 

20  ing  to  give  up  our  present  mode  of  life,  with  all  its  advantages 
and  disadvantages,  for  any  other  that  could  be  substituted  for 
it.  No  man  would,  I  think,  exchange  his  existence  with  any 
other  man,  however  fortunate.  We  had  as  lief  not  be,  as  not 
be  ourselves.    There  are  some  persons  of  that  reach  of  soul  that 

25  they  would  like  to  live  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  hence,  to 
see  to  what  height  of  empire  America  will  have  grown  up  in 
that  period,  or  whether  the  English  constitution  will  last  so 
long.  These  are  points  beyond  me.  But  I  confess  1  should 
like  to  live  to  see  the  downfall  of  the  Bourbons.    That  is  a 

30  vital  question  with  mc ;  and  I  should  like  it  the  better,  the 
sooner  it  happens  ! 

No  young  man  ever  thinks  he  shall  die.     He  may  believe 

that  others  will,  or  assent  to  the  doctrine  that  "  all  men  are 

•mortal "  as  an  abstract  proposition,  but  he  is  far  enough  from 


ON  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH  II9 

bringing  it  home  to  himself  individually.'  Youth,  buoyant  activ- 
ity, and  animal  spirits,  hold  absolute  antipathy  with  old  age  as 
well  as  with  death ;  nor  have  we,  in  the  hey-day  of  life,  any 
more  than  in  the  thoughtlessness  of  childhood,  the  remotest 
conception  how  S 

"  This  sensible  warm  motion  can  become 
A  kneaded  clod  "  — 

nor    how   sanguine,   florid    health   and   vigour   shall   "  turn   to 
withered,  weak,  and  grey."    Or  if  in  a  moment  of  idle  specu- 
lation we  indulge  in  this  notion  of  the  close  of  life  as  a  theory,  10 
it  is  amazing  at  what  a  distance  it  seems  ;  what  a  long,  leisurely 
interval  there  is  between ;  what  a  contrast  its  slow  and  solemn 
approach  affords  to  our  present  gay  dreams  of  existence !    We 
eye  the  farthest  verge  of  the  horizon,  and  think  what  a  way 
we  shall  have  to  look  back  upon  ere  we  arrive  at  our  journey's  15 
end ;   and  without  our  in  the  least  suspecting  it,  the  mists  are 
at  our  feet,  and  the  shadows  of  age  encompass  us.    The  two 
divisions  of  our  lives  have  melted  into  each  other :  the  extreme 
points  close  and  meet  with  none  of  that  romantic  interval  stretch- 
ing out  between  them,  that  we  had  reckoned  upon ;  and  for  the  20 
rich,  melancholy,  solemn  hues  of  age,  "  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf," 
the  deepening  shadows  of  an  autumnal  evening,  we  only  feel  a 
dank,  cold  mist,  encircling  all  objects,  after  the  spirit  of  youth 
is  fled.    There  is  no  inducement  to  look  forward ;  and  what  is 
worse,  little  interest  in  looking  back  to  what  has  become  so  25 
trite  and  common.    The  pleasures  of  our  existence  have  worn 
themselves  out,  are  "  gone  into  the  wastes  of  time,"  or  have 
turned  their  indifferent  side  to  us :   the  pains  by  their  repeated 
blows  have  worn  us  out,  and  have  left  us  neither  spirit  nor  in- 
clination to  encounter  them  again  in  retrospect.     We  do  not  30 
want  to  rip  up   old  grievances,  nor  to  renew  our  youth  like 
the  phoenix,  nor  to  live  our  lives  twice  over.     Once  is  enough. 

1"  All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves." —  Voung. 


I20  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

As  the  tree  falls,  so  let  it  lie.    Shut  up  the  book  and  close  the 
account  once  for  all ! 

It  has  been  thought  by  some  that  life  is  like  the  exploring  of 
a  passage  that  grows  narrower  and  darker  the  farther  we  ad- 
5  vance,  without  a  possibility  of  ever  turning  back,  and  where  we 
are  stifled  for  want  of  breath  at  last.  For  myself,  I  do  not 
complain  of  the  greater  thickness  of  the  atmosphere  as  I  ap- 
proach the  narrow  house.  I  felt  it  more,  formerly,^  when  the 
idea  alone  seemed  to  suppress  a  thousand  rising  hopes  and 

lo  weighed  upon  the  pulses  of  the  blood.  At  present  I  rather  feel 
a  thinness  and  want  of  support,  I  stretch  out  my  hand  to  some 
object  and  find  none,  I  am  too  much  in  a  world  of  abstraction ; 
the  naked  map  of  life  is  spread  out  before  me,  and  in  the  emp- 
tiness and  desolation  I  see  Death  coming  to  meet  me.    In  my 

15  youth  I  could  not  behold  him  for  the  crowd  of  objects  and 
feelings,  and  Hope  stood  always  between  us,  saying  — "  Never 
mind  that  old  fellow !  "  If  I  had  lived  indeed,  I  should  not 
care  to  die.  But  I  do  not  like  a  contract  of  pleasure  broken  off 
unfulfilled,  a  marriage  with  joy  unconsummated,  a  promise  of 

20  happiness  rescinded.  My  public  and  private  hopes  have  been 
left  a  ruin,  or  remain  only  to  mock  me.  I  would  wish  them  to 
be  re-edified.  I  should  like  to  see  some  prospect  of  good  to 
mankind,  such  as  my  life  began  with.  I  should  like  to  leave 
some  sterling  work  behind  me.     I  should  like  to  have  some 

25  friendly  hand  to  consign  me  to  the  grave.  On  these  conditions 
I  am  ready,  if  not  willing,  to  depart.  I  shall  then  write  on  my 
tomb  —  Grateful  and  Contented  !  But  I  have  thought  and 
suffered  too  much  to  be  willing  to  have  thought  and  suffered  in 
vain. —  In  looking  back,  it  sometimes  appears  to  me  as  if  I 

30  had  in  a  manner  slept  out  my  life  in  a  dream  or  shadow  on  the 
side  of  the  hill   of   knowledge,  where    I   have   fed  on   books, 

>  1  remember  once,  in  particular,  having  tliis  feeling  in  reading  .Schiller's 
Don  Carlos,  where  there  is  a  description  of  death,  in  a  degree  that  almost 
stifled  me. 


ON  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH  121 

on  thoughts,  on  pictures,  and  only  heard  in  half-murmurs  the 
trampling  of  busy  feet,  or  the  noises  of  the  throng  below.  Waked 
out  of  this  dim,  twilight  existence,  and  startled  with  the  passing 
scene,  I  have  felt  a  wish  to  descend  to  the  world  of  reali- 
ties, and  join  in  the  chase.  But  I  fear  too  late,  and  that  I  had  5 
better  return  to  my  bookish  chimeras  and  indolence  once  more  ! 
Zanetto,  hxscia  le  don/ie,  et  studia  la  matetnatica.   I  will  think  of  it. 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  the  contemplation  and  fear  of  death 
become  more  familiar  to  us  as  we  approach  nearer  to  it :  that 
life  seems  to  ebb  with  the  decay  of  blood  and  youthful  spirits  ;  10 
and  that  as  we  find  everything  about  us  subject  to  chance  and 
change,  as  our  strength  and  beauty  die,  as  our  hopes  and  pas- 
sions, our  friends  and  our  affections  leave  us,  we  begin  by  de- 
grees to  feel  ourselves  mortal ! 

I  have  never  seen  death  but  once,  and  that  was  in  an  infant.  15 
It  is  years  ago.    The  look  was  calm  and  placid,  and  the  face 
was  fair  and  firm.    It  was  as  if  a  waxen  image  had  been  laid 
out  in  the  coffin,  and  strewed  with  innocent  flowers.    It  was  not 
like  death,  but  more  like  an  image  of  life !    No  breath  moved 
the  lips,  no  pulse  stirred,  no  sight  or  sound  would  enter  those  20 
eyes  or  ears  more.    While  I  looked  at  it,  I  saw  no  pain  was 
there ;  it  seemed  to  smile  at  the  short  pang  of  life  which  was 
over :  but  I  could  not  bear  the  coffin-lid  to  be  closed  —  it  seemed 
to  stifle  me ;  and  still  as  the  nettles  wave  in  a  corner  of  the 
churchyard  over  his  little  grave,  the  welcome  breeze  helps  to  25 
refresh  me,  and  ease  the  tightness  at  my  breast ! 

An  ivory  or  marble  image,  like  Chantry's  monument  of  the 
two  children,  is  contemplated  with  pure  delight.  Why  do  we 
not  grieve  and  fret  that  the  marble  is  not  alive,  or  fancy  that  it 
has  a  shortness  of  breath  1  It  never  was  alive  ;  and  it  is  the  30 
difficulty  of  making  the  transition  from  life  to  death,  the  struggle 
between  the  two  in  our  imagination,  that  confounds  their  prop- 
erties painfully  together,  and  makes  us  conceive  that  the  infant 
that  is  but  just  dead,  still  wants  to  breathe,  to  enjoy,  and  look 


122  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

about  it,  and  is  prevented  by  the  icy  hand  of  death,  locking  up 
its  faculties  and  benumbing  its  senses ;  so  that,  if  it  could,  it 
would  complain  of  its  own  hard  state.  Perhaps  religious  con- 
siderations reconcile  the  mind  to  this  change  sooner  than  any 
5  others,  by  representing  the  spirit  as  fled  to  another  sphere,  and 
leaving  the  body  behind  it.  So  in  reflecting  on  death  generally, 
we  mix  up  the  idea  of  life  with  it,  and  thus  make  it  the  ghastly 
monster  it  is.    We  think  how  we  should  feel,  not  how  the  dead 

feel, 
lo  "  Still  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries ; 

Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires  !  " 

There  is  an  admirable  passage  on  this  subject  in  Tucker's 
Light  of  Nature  Pursued^  which  I  shall  transcribe,  as  by  much 
the  best  illustration  I  can  offer  of  it. 

15  "  The  melancholy  appearance  of  a  lifeless  body,  the  mansion 
provided  for  it  to  inhabit,  dark,  cold,  close  and  solitary,  are 
shocking  to  the  imagination  ;  but  it  is  to  the  imagination  only, 
not  the  understanding ;  for  whoever  consults  this  faculty  will 
see  at  first  glance,  that  there  is  nothing  dismal  in  all  these  cir- 

20  cumstances :  if  the  corpse  were  kept  wrapped  up  in  a  warm 
bed,  with  a  roasting  fire  in  the  chamber,  it  would  feel  no  com- 
fortable warmth  therefrom ;  were  store  of  tapers  lighted  up  as 
soon  as  day  shuts  in,  it  would  see  no  objects  to  divert  it ;  were 
it  left  at  large  it  would  have  no  liberty,  nor  if  surrounded  with 

25  company  would  be  cheered  thereby ;  neither  are  the  distorted 
features  expressions  of  pain,  uneasiness,  or  distress.  This  every 
one  knows,  and  will  readily  allow  upon  being  suggested,  yet  still 
cannot  behold,  nor  even  cast  a  thought  upon  those  objects  with- 
out shuddering ;  for  knowing  that  a  living  person  must  suffer 

30  grievously  under  such  appearances,  they  become  habitually  for- 
midable to  the  mind,  and  strike  a  mechanical  horror,  which  is 
increased  by  the  customs  of  the  world  around  us." 

There  is  usually  one  pang  added  voluntarily  and  unnecessarily 
to  the  fear  of  death,  by  our  affecting  to  compassionate  the  loss 


ON  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH  1 23 

which  others  will  ha\e  in  us.  If  that  were  all,  we  might  reason- 
ably set  our  minds  at  rest.  The  pathetic  exhortation  on  country 
tombstones,  "  Grieve  not  for  me,  my  wife  and  children  dear," 
&c.  is  for  the  most  part  speedily  followed  to  the  letter.  We  do 
not  leave  so  great  a  void  in  society  as  we  arc  inclined  to  imagine,  5 
partly  to  magnify  our  own  importance,  and  partly  to  console 
ourselves  by  sympathy.  Even  in  the  same  family  the  gap  is  not 
so  great ;  the  wound  closes  up  sooner  than  we  should  expect. 
Nay,  our  room  is  not  infrequently  thought  better  than  our  corn- 
pa  ny.  People  walk,  along  the  streets  the  day  after  our  deaths  10 
just  as  they  did  before,  and  the  crowd  is  not  diminished.  While 
we  were  living,  the  world  seemed  in  a  manner  to  exist  only  for 
us,  for  our  delight  and  amusement,  because  it  contributed  to 
them.  But  our  hearts  cease  to  beat,  and  it  goes  on  as  usual, 
and  thinks  no  more  about  us  than  it  did  in  our  life-time.  The  1 5 
million  are  devoid  of  sentiment,  and  care  as  little  for  you  or  me 
as  if  we  belonged  to  the  moon.  We  live  the  week  over  in  the 
Sunday's  paper,  or  are  decently  interred  in  some  obituary  at  the 
month's  end  !  It  is  not  surprising  that  we  are  forgotten  so  soon 
after  we  quit  this  mortal  stage :  we  are  scarcely  noticed,  while  20 
we  are  on  it.  It  is  not  merely  that  our  names  are  not  known  in 
China  —  they  have  hardly  been  heard  of  in  the  next  street.  We 
are  hand  and  glove  with  the  universe,  and  think  the  obligation 
is  mutual.  This  is  an  evident  fallacy.  If  this,  however,  does  not 
trouble  us  now,  it  will  not  hereafter.  A  handful  of  dust  can  have  no  25 
quarrel  to  pick  w'ith  its  neighbours,  or  complaint  to  make  against 
Providence,  and  might  well  exclaim,  if  it  had  but  an  understand- 
ing and  a  tongue,  "  Go  thy  ways,  old  world,  swing  round  in  blue 
ether,  voluble  to  every  age,  you  and  I  shall  no  more  jostle !  " 

It  is  amazing  how  soon  the  rich  and  titled,  and  even  some  of  30 
those  who  have  wielded  great  political  power,  are  forgotten. 

"  A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
Is  all  the  great  and  mighty  have 
Betwixt  the  cradle  and  the  grave  "  — 


124  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

and,  after  its  short  date,  they  hardly  leave  a  name  behind  them. 
"  A  great  man's  memory  may,  at  the  common  rate,  survive  him 
half  a  year."  His  heirs  and  successors  take  his  titles,  his  power, 
and  his  wealth  —  all  that  made  him  considerable  or  courted  by 
5  others ;  and  he  has  left  nothing  else  behind  him  either  to  delight 
or  benefit  the  world.  Posterity  are  not  by  any  means  so  disin- 
terested as  they  are  supposed  to  be.  They  give  their  gratitude 
and  admiration  only  in  return  for  benefits  conferred.  They 
cherish  the  memory  of  those  to  whom  they  are  indebted  for 
lo  instruction  and  delight ;  and  they  cherish  it  just  in  proportion 
to  the  instruction  and  delight  they  are  conscious  they  receive. 
The  sentiment  of  admiration  springs  immediately  from  this 
ground,  and  cannot  be  otherwise  than  well  founded.^ 

The  effeminate  clinging  to  life  as  such,  as  a  general  or  abstract 
15  idea,  is  the  effect  of  a  highly  civilised  and  artificial  state  of  so- 
ciety.   Men  formerly  plunged  into  all  the  vicissitudes  and  dan- 
gers of  war,  or  staked  their  all  upon  a  single  die,  or  some  one 
passion,  which  if  they  could  not  have  gratified,  life  became  a 
burthen  to  them — now  our  strongest  passion  is  to  think,  our  chief 
20  amusement  is  to  read  new  plays,  new  poems,  new  novels,  and 
this  we  may  do  at  our  leisure,  in  perfect  security,  ad  infinitum. 
If  we  look  into  the  old  histories  and  romances,  before  the  belles- 
lettres  neutralised  human  affairs  and  reduced  passion  to  a  state 
of  mental  equivocation,  we  find  the  heroes  and  heroines  not  set- 
25  ting  their  lives  "  at  a  pin's  fee,"  but  rather  courting  opportunities 
of  throwing  them  away  in  very  wantonness  of  spirit.   They  raise 
their  fondness  for  some  favourite  pursuit  to  its  height,  to  a 
pitch  of  madness,  and  think  no  price  too  dear  to  pay  for  its  full 

1  It  has  been  usual  to  raise  a  very  unjust  clamour  against  the  enormous  sala- 
ries of  public  singers,  actors,  and  so  on.  This  matter  seems  reducible  to  a  moral 
equation.  They  are  paid  out  of  money  raised  by  voluntary  contributions  in 
the  strictest  sense ;  and  if  they  did  not  bring  certain  sums  into  the  treasury,  the 
Managers  would  not  engage  them.  These  sums  are  exactly  in  proportion  to  the 
number  of  individuals  to  whom  their  performance  gives  an  extraordinary  degree 
of  pleasure.  The  talents  of  a  singer,  actor,  &c.  are  therefore  worth  just  as  much 
as  they  will  fetch. 


ON  THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH  1 25 

gratification.  Everything  else  is  dross.  They  go  to  death  as  to 
a  bridal  bed,  and  sacrifice  themselves  or  others  without  remorse 
at  the  shrine  of  love,  of  honour,  of  religion,  or  any  other  pre- 
vailing feeling.  Romeo  runs  his  "  seasick,  weary  bark  upon  the 
rocks  "  of  death,  the  instant  he  finds  himself  deprived  of  his  5 
Juliet ;  and  she  clasps  his  neck  in  their  last  agonies,  and  follows 
him  to  the  same  fatal  shore.  One  strong  idea  takes  possession 
of  the  mind  and  overrules  every  other ;  and  even  life  itself,  joy- 
less without  that,  becomes  an  object  of  indifference  or  loathing. 
There  is  at  least  more  of  imagination  in  such  a  state  of  things,  10 
more  vigour  of  feeling  and  promptitude  to  act  than  in  our  lin- 
gering, languid,  protracted  attachment  to  life  for  its  own  poor 
sake.  It  is,  perhaps,  also  better,  as  well  as  more  heroical,  to 
strike  at  some  daring  or  darling  object,  and  if  we  fail  in  that,  to 
take  the  consequences  manfully,  than  to  renew  the  lease  of  a  15 
tedious,  spiritless,  charmless  existence,  merely  (as  Pierre  says) 
"  to  lose  it  afterwards  in  some  vile  brawl "  for  some  worthless 
object.  Was  there  not  a  spirit  of  martyrdom  as  well  as  a  spice 
of  the  reckless  energy  of  barbarism  in  this  bold  defiance  of 
death  ?  Had  not  religion  something  to  do  with  it ;  the  implicit  20 
belief  in  a  future  life,  which  rendered  this  of  less  value,  and 
embodied  something  beyond  it  to  the  imagination ;  so  that  the 
rough  soldier,  the  infatuated  lover,  the  valorous  knight,  &c. 
could  afford  to  throw  away  the  present  venture,  and  take  a  leap 
into  the  arms  of  futurity,  which  the  modern  sceptic  shrinks  back  25 
from,  with  all  his  boasted  reason  and  vain  philosophy,  weaker 
than  a  woman  !  I  cannot  help  thinking  so  myself ;  but  I  have 
endeavoured  to  explain  this  point  before,  and  will  not  enlarge 
further  on  it  here. 

A  life  of  action  and  danger  moderates  the  dread  of  death.    It  30 
not  only  gives  us  fortitude  to  bear  pain,  but  teaches  us  at  every 
step  the  precarious  tenure  on  which  we  hold  our  present  being. 
Sedentary  and  studious  men  are  the  most  apprehensive  on  this 
score.    Dr.  Johnson  was  an  instance  in  point.    A  few  years 


126  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

seemed  to  him  soon  over,  compared  with  those  sweeping  con- 
templations on  time  and  infinity  with  which  he  had  been  used 
to  pose  himself.  In  the  still-life  of  a  man  of  letters,  there  was 
no  obvious  reason  for  a  change.  He  might  sit  in  an  arm- 
3  chair  and  pour  out  cups  of  tea  to  all  eternity.  Would  it  had 
been  possible  for  him  to  do  so !  The  most  rational  cure  after 
all  for  the  inordinate  fear  of  death  is  to  set  a  just  value  on  life. 
If  we  merely  wish  to  continue  on  the  scene  to  indulge  our  head- 
strong humours  and  tormenting  passions,  we  had  better  begone 
lo  at  once  :  and  if  we  only  cherish  a  fondness  for  existence  accord- 
ing to  the  good  we  derive  from  it,  the  pang  we  feel  at  parting 
with  it  will  not  be  very  severe ! 


ON   LIVING  TO  ONE'S-SELF 

"  Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheldt  or  wandering  Po." 

I  never  was  in  a  better  place  or  humour  than  I  am  at  present 
for  writing  on  this  subject.  I  have  a  partridge  getting  ready  for 
my  supper,  my  fire  is  blazing  on  the  hearth,  the  air  is  mild  5 
for  the  season  of  the  year,  I  have  had  but  a  slight  fit  of  indiges- 
tion to-day  (the  only  thing  that  makes  me  abhor  myself),  I  have 
three  hours  good  before  me,  and  therefore  I  will  attempt  it.  It 
is  as  well  to  do  it  at  once  as  to  have  it  to  do  for  a  week  to 
come.  '° 

If  the  writing  on  this  subject  is  no  easy  task,  the  thing  itself 
is  a  harder  one.  It  asks  a  troublesome  effort  to  ensure  the 
admiration  of  others :  it  is  a  still  greater  one  to  be  satisfied 
with  one's  own  thoughts.  As  I  look  from  the  window  at  the 
wide  bare  heath  before  me,  and  through  the  misty  moon-light  15 
air  see  the  woods  that  wave  over  the  top  of  Winterslow, 

"  While  Heav'n's  chancel-vault  is  blind  with  sleet," 

my  mind  takes  its  flight  through  too  long  a  series  of  years, 
supported  only  by  the  patience  of  thought  and  secret  yearnings 
after  truth  and  good,  for  me  to  be  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  20 
feeling  I  intend  to  write  about ;  but  I  do  not  know  that  this 
will  enable  me  to  convey  it  more  agreeably  to  the  reader. 

Lady  G.  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Harriet  Byron,  assures  her  that 
"  her  brother  Sir  Charles  lived  to  himself :"  and  Lady  L.  soon 
after  (for  Richardson  was  never  tired  of  a  good  thing)  repeats  25 
the  same  observation ;  to  which  Miss  Byron  frequently  returns 
in  her  answers  to  both  sisters  —  "For  you  know  Sir  Charles 


128  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

lives  to  himself,"  till  at  length  it  passes  into  a  proverb  among 
the  fair  correspondents.  This  is  not,  however,  an  example  of 
what  I  understand  by  living  to  one's-self,  for  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son  was  indeed  always  thinking  of  himself ;  but  by  this  phrase 
5  I  mean  never  thinking  at  all  about  one's-self,  any  more  than  if 
there  was  no  such  person  in  existence.  The  character  I  speak 
of  is  as  little  of  an  egotist  as  possible :  Richardson's  great 
favourite  was  as  much  of  one  as  possible.  Some  satirical  critic 
has  represented  him  in  Elysium  "bowing  over  the  faded  hand 

lo  of  Lady  Grandison  "  (Miss  Byron  that  was)  —  he  ought  to  have 
been  represented  bowing  over  his  own  hand,  for  he  never 
admired  any  one  but  himself,  and  was  the  god  of  his  own 
idolatry.  Neither  do  I  call  it  living  to  one's-self  to  retire  into 
a  desert  (like  the  saints  and  martyrs  of  old)  to  be  devoured  by 

15  wild  beasts,  nor  to  descend  into  a  cave  to  be  considered  as 
a  hermit,  nor  to  get  to  the  top  of  a  pillar  or  rock  to  do  fanatic 
penance  and  be  seen  of  all  men.  What  I  mean  by  living  to 
one's-self  is  living  in  the  world,  as  in  it,  not  of  it :  it  is  as  if  no 
one  knew  there  was  such  a  person,  and  you  wish  no  one  to 

20  know  it :  it  is  to  be  a  silent  spectator  of  the  mighty  scene  of 
things,  not  an  object  of  attention  or  curiosity  in  it ;  to  take  a 
thoughtful,  anxious  interest  in  what  is  passing  in  the  world,  but 
not  to  feel  the  slightest  inclination  to  make  or  meddle  with  it. 
It  is  such  a  life  as  a  pure  spirit  might  be  supposed  to  lead,  and 

25  such  an  interest  as  it  might  take  in  the  affairs  of  men,  calm,  con- 
templative, passive,  distant,  touched  with  pity  for  their  sorrows, 
smiling  at  their  follies  without  bitterness,  sharing  their  affections, 
but  not  troubled  by  their  passions,  not  seeking  their  notice,  nor 
once  dreamt  of  by  them.    He  who  lives  wisely  to  himself  and 

30  to  his  own  heart,  looks  at  the  busy  world  through  the  loop-holes 
of  retreat,  and  does  not  want  to  mingle  in  the  fray.  "  He  hears 
the  tumult,  and  is  still."  He  is  not  able  to  mend  it,  nor  willing 
to  mar  it.  He  sees  enough  in  the  universe  to  interest  him  with- 
out putting  himself  forward  to  try  what  he  can  do  to  fix  the 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S-SELF  1 29 

eyes  of  the  universe  upon  him.  Vain  the  attempt !  He  reads 
the  clouds,  he  looks  at  the  stars,  he  watches  the  return  of  the 
seasons,  the  falling  leaves  of  autumn,  the  perfumed  breath  of 
spring,  starts  with  delight  at  the  note  of  a  thrush  in  a  copse 
near  him,  sits  by  the  fire,  listens  to  the  moaning  of  the  wind,  5 
pores  upon  a  book,  or  discourses  the  freezing  hours  away,  or 
melts  down  hours  to  minutes  in  pleasing  thought.  All  this  while 
he  is  taken  up  with  other  things,  forgetting  himself.  He  relishes 
an  author's  style,  without  thinking  of  turning  author.  He  is  fond 
of  looking  at  a  print  from  an  old  picture  in  the  room,  without  10 
teasing  himself  to  copy  it.  He  does  not  fret  himself  to  death 
with  trying  to  be  what  he  is  not,  or  to  do  what  he  cannot.  He 
hardly  knows  what  he  is  capable  of,  and  is  not  in  the  least 
concerned  whether  he  shall  ever  make  a  figure  in  the  world. 
He  feels  the  truth  of  the  lines —  15 

"  The  man  whose  eye  is  ever  on  himself, 
Doth  look  on  one,  the  least  of  nature's  works ; 
One  who  might  move  the  wise  man  to  that  scorn 
Which  wisdom  holds  unlawful  ever"  — 

he  looks  out  of  himself  at  the  wide  extended  prospect  of  nature,  20 
and  takes  an  interest  beyond  his  narrow  pretensions  in  general 
humanity.    He  is  free  as  air,  and  independent  as  the  wind. 
Woe  be  to  him  when  he  first  begins  to  think  what  others  say 
of  him.    While  a  man  is  contented  with  himself  and  his  own 
resources,  all  is  well.    When  he  undertakes  to  play  a  part  on  25 
the  stage,  and  to  persuade  the  world  to  think  more  about  him 
than  they  do  about  themselves,  he  is  got  into  a  track  where  he 
will  find  nothing  but  briars  and  thorns,  vexation  and  disappoint- 
ment.   I  can  speak  a  little  to  this  point.    For  many  years  of 
my  life  I  did  nothing  but  think.    I  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  30 
solve  some  knotty  point,  or  dip  in  some  abstruse  author,  or  look 
at  the  sky,  or  wander  by  the  pebbled  sea-side  — 

"  To  see  the  children  sporting  on  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore." 


I30  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

I  cared  for  nothing,  I  wanted  nothing.  I  took  my  time  to 
consider  whatever  occurred  to  me,  and  was  in  no  hurry  to  give 
a  sophistical  answer  to  a  question  —  there  was  no  printer's 
devil  waiting  for  me.  I  used  to  write  a  page  or  two  perhaps  in 
5  half  a  year ;  and  remember  laughing  heartily  at  the  celebrated 
experimentalist  Nicholson,  who  told  me  that  in  twenty  years  he 
had  written  as  much  as  would  make  three  hundred  octavo 
volumes.  If  I  was  not  a  great  author,  I  could  read  with  ever 
fresh  delight,  "  never  ending,  still  beginning,"  and  had  no  occa- 

lo  sion  to  write  a  criticism  when  I  had  done.  If  I  could  not  paint 
like  Claude,  I  could  admire  "  the  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky  " 
as  I  walked  out,  and  was  satisfied  with  the  pleasure  it  gave  me. 
If  I  was  dull,  it  gave  me  little  concern :  if  I  was  lively,  I 
indulged  my  spirits.    I  wished  well  to  the  world,  and  believed 

1 5  as  favourably  of  it  as  I  could.  I  was  like  a  stranger  in  a  foreign 
land,  at  which  I  looked  with  wonder,  curiosity,  and  delight, 
without  expecting  to  be  an  object  of  attention  in  return.  I  had 
no  relations  to  the  state,  no  duty  to  perform,  no  ties  to  bind 
me  to  others :  I  had  neither  friend  nor  mistress,  wife  or  child. 

20  I  lived  in  a  world  of  contemplation,  and  not  of  action. 

This  sort  of  dreaming  existence  is  the  best.  He  who  quits  it 
to  go  in  search  of  realities,  generally  barters  repose  for  repeated 
disappointments  and  vain  regrets.  His  time,  thoughts,  and 
feelings  are  no  longer  at  his  own  disposal.    From  that  instant 

25  he  does  not  survey  the  objects  of  nature  as  they  are  in  them- 
selves, but  looks  asquint  at  them  to  see  whether  he  cannot 
make  them  the  instruments  of  his  ambition,  interest,  or  pleas- 
ure ;  for  a  candid,  undesigning,  undisguised  simplicity  of  char- 
acter, his  views  become  jaundiced,  sinister,  and  double :  he  takes 

30  no  farther  interest  in  the  great  changes  of  the  world  but  as  he 
has  a  paltry  share  in  producing  them  :  instead  of  opening  his 
senses,  his  understanding,  and  liis  heart  to  the  resplendent 
fabric  of  the  universe,  he  holds  a  crooked  mirror  before  his 
face,  in  which  he  may  admire  his  own  person  and  pretensions. 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S-SELF  131 

and  just  glance  his  eye  aside  to  see  whether  others  arc  not 
admiring  him  too.  He  no  more  exists  in  the  impression  which 
"  the  fair  variety  of  things "  makes  upon  him,  softened  and 
subdued  by  habitual  contemplation,  but  in  the  feverish  sense  of 
his  own  upstart  self-importance.  By  aiming  to  fix,  he  is  become  5 
the  slave  of  opinion.  He  is  a  tool,  a  part  of  a  machine  that 
never  stands  still,  and  is  sick  and  giddy  with  the  ceaseless 
motion.  He  has  no  satisfaction  but  in  the  reflection  of  his  own 
image  in  the  public  gaze,  but  in  the  repetition  of  his  own  name 
in  the  public  ear.  He  himself  is  mixed  up  with,  and  spoils  10 
every  thing.  I  wonder  Buonaparte  was  not  tired  of  the  N.  N.'s 
stuck  all  over  the  Louvre  and  throughout  France.  Goldsmith 
(as  we  all  know)  when  in  Holland  went  out  into  a  balcony  with 
some  handsome  Englishwomen,  and  on  their  being  applauded 
by  the  spectators,  turned  round  and  said  peevishly  —  "There  15 
are  places  where  I  also  am  admired."  He  could  not  give  the 
craving  appetite  of  an  author's  vanity  one  day's  respite.  I  have 
seen  a  celebrated  talker  of  our  own  time  turn  pale  and  go  out 
of  the  room  when  a  showy-looking  girl  has  come  into  it,  who 
for  a  moment  divided  the  attention  of  his  hearers.  Infinite  are  20 
the  mortifications  of  the  bare  attempt  to  emerge  from  obscurity  ; 
numberless  the  failures ;  and  greater  and  more  galling  still  the 
vicissitudes  and  tormenting  accompaniments  of  success  — 

" Whose  top  to  climb 

Is  certain  falling,  or  so  slippery,  that  25 

The  fear's  as  bad  as  falling." 

"  Would  to  God,"  exclaimed  Oliver  Cromwell,  when  he  was  at 
at  any  time  thwarted  by  the  Parliament,  "  that  I  had  remained 
by  my  woodside  to  tend  a  flock  of  sheep,  rather  than  have  been 
thrust  on  such  a  government  as  this !  "  When  Buonaparte  got  30 
into  his  carriage  to  proceed  on  his  Russian  expedition,  care- 
lessly twirling  his  glove,  and  singing  the  air  —  "  Malbrook  to 
the  wars  is  going  "  —  he  did  not  think  of  the  tumble  he  has  got 
since,  the  shock  of  which  no  one  could  have  stood  but  himself. 


132  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

We  see  and  hear  chiefly  of  the  favourites  of  Fortune  and  the 
Muse,  of  great  generals,  of  first-rate  actors,  of  celebrated  poets. 
These  are  at  the  head ;  we  are  struck  with  the  glittering  emi- 
nence on  which  they  stand,  and  long  to  set  out  on  the  same 
5  tempting  career :  —  not  thinking  how  many  discontented  half-pay 
lieutenants  are  in  vain  seeking  promotion  all  their  lives,  and 
obliged  to  put  up  with  "  the  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
which  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes ;  "  how  many  half- 
starved  strolling-players  are  doomed  to  penury  and  tattered 

lo  robes  in  country  places,  dreaming  to  the  last  of  a  London  en- 
gagement ;  how  many  wretched  daubers  shiver  and  shake  in  the 
ague-fit  of  alternate  hopes  and  fears,  waste  and  pine  away  in 
the  atrophy  of  genius,  or  else  turn  drawing-masters,  picture- 
cleaners,  or  newspaper  critics ;  how  many  hapless  poets  have 

15  sighed  out  their  souls  to  the  Muse  in  vain,  without  ever  getting 
their  effusions  farther  known  than  the  Poet's-Corner  of  a 
country  newspaper,  and  looked  and  looked  with  grudging,  wist- 
ful eyes  at  the  envious  horizon  that  bounded  their  provincial 
fame  !   Suppose  an  actor,  for  instance,  "  after  the  heart-aches  and 

20  the  thousand  natural  pangs  that  flesh  is  heir  to,"  does  get  at  the 
top  of  his  profession,  he  can  no  longer  bear  a  rival  near  the 
throne  ;  to  be  second  or  only  equal  to  another,  is  to  be  nothing : 
he  starts  at  the  prospect  of  a  successor,  and  retains  the 
mimic    sceptre   with    a   convulsive  grasp :    perhaps   as   he   is 

25  about  to  seize  the  first  place  which  he  has  long  had  in  his  eye, 
an  unsuspected  competitor  steps  in  before  him,  and  carries  off 
the  prize,  leaving  him  to  commence  his  irksome  toil  again  :  he 
is  in  a  state  of  alarm  at  every  appearance  or  rumour  of  the 
appearance  of  a  new  actor :  "  a  mouse  that  takes  up  its  lodging 

30  in  a  cat's  ear  "  ^  has  a  mansion  of  peace  to  him  :  he  dreads 
every  hint  of  an  objection,  and  least  of  all,  can  forgive  praise 
mingled  with  censure :  to  doubt  is  to  insult,  to  discriminate  is 
to  degrade :  he  dare  hardly  look  into  a  criticism  unless  some 

'  Webster's  Duchess  of  Malfy. 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S-SELF  133 

one  has  tasted  it  for  him,  to  see  that  there  is  no  offence  in  it : 
if  he  does  not  draw  crowded  houses  every  night,  he  can  neither 
eat  nor  sleep  ;  or  if  all  these  terrible  inflictions  are  removed,  and 
he  can  "  eat  his  meal  in  peace,"  he  then  becomes  surfeited  with 
applause  and  dissatisfied  with  his  profession :  he  wants  to  be  5 
something  else,  to  be  distinguished  as  an  author,  a  collector,  a 
classical  scholar,  a  man  of  sense  and  information,  and  weighs 
every  word  he  utters,  and  half  retracts  it  before  he  utters  it, 
lest  if  he  were  to  make  the  smallest  slip  of  the  tongue,  it  should 

get  buzzed  abroad  that  Mr. was  only  clever  as  an  actor  !  10 

If  ever  there  was  a  man  who  did  not  derive  more  pain  than 
pleasure  from  his  vanity,  that  man,  says  Rousseau,  was  no 
other  than  a  fool.  A  country-gentleman  near  Taunton  spent 
his  whole  life  in  making  some  hundreds  of  wretched  copies 
of  second-rate  pictures,  which  were  bought  up  at  his  death  by  a  i  S 
neighbouring  Baronet,  to  whom 

"  Some  demon  whisper'd,  L ,  have  a  taste  !  " 

A  little  Wilson  in  an  obscure  corner  escaped  the  man  of  vi>iu, 
and  was  carried  off  by  a  Bristol  picture-dealer  for  three  guineas, 
while  the  muddled  copies  of  the  owner  of  the  mansion  (with  20 
the  frames)  fetched  thirty,  forty,  sixty,  a  hundred  ducats  a  piece. 
A  friend  of  mine  found  a  very  fine  Canaletti  in  a  state  of 
strange  disfigurement,  with  the  upper  part  of  the  sky  smeared 
over  and  fantastically  variegated  with  English  clouds ;  and  on 
inquiring  of  the  person  to  whom  it  belonged  whether  some-  25 
thing  had  not  been  done  to  it,  received  for  answer  "  that  a 
gentleman,  a  great  artist  in  the  neighbourhood,  had  retouched 
some  parts  of  it."    What  infatuation !    Yet  this  candidate  for 
the  honours  of  the  pencil  might  probably  have  made  a  jovial 
fox-hunter  or  respectable  justice  of  the  peace,  if  he  could  only  30 
have   stuck   to   what  nature    and   fortune   intended    him  for. 

Miss can  by  no  means  be  persuaded  to  quit  the  boards 

of  the  theatre  at ,  a  little  countiy  town  in  the  West  of 


134  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

England.  Her  salary  has  been  abridged,  her  person  ridiculed, 
her  acting  laughed  at ;  nothing  will  serve  —  she  is  determined  to 
be  an  actress,  and  scorns  to  return  to  her  former  business  as  a 
milliner.  Shall  I  go  on  ?  An  actor  in  the  same  company  was 
5  visited  by  the  apothecary  of  the  place  in  an  ague-fit,  who  on 
asking  his  landlady  as  to  his  way  of  life,  was  told  that  the  poor 
gentleman  was  very  quiet  and  gave  little  trouble,  that  he  gen- 
erally had  a  plate  of  mashed  potatoes  for  his  dinner,  and  lay  in 
bed  most  of  his  time,  repeating  his  part.    A  young  couple,  every 

lo  way  amiable  and  deserving,  were  to  have  been  married,  and  a 
benefit-play  was  bespoke  by  the  officers  of  the  regiment  quar- 
tered there,  to  defray  the  expense  of  a  license  and  of  the 
wedding-ring,  but  the  profits  of  the  night  did  not  amount  to  the 
necessary  sum,  and  they  have,  I  fear,  "  virgined  it  e'er  since !  " 

15  Oh  for  the  pencil  of  Hogarth  or  Wilkie  to  give  a  view  of  the 

comic  strength  of  the  company  at •,  drawn  up  in  battle-array 

in  the  Clandestine  Marriage,  with  a  coup-cTceil  of  the  pit,  boxes, 
and  galler}',  to  cure  for  ever  the  love  of  the  ideal,  and  the  de- 
sire to  shine  and  make  holiday  in  the  eyes  of  others,  instead 

20  of  retiring  within  ourselves  and  keeping  our  wishes  and  our 
thoughts  at  home ! 

Even  in  the  common  affairs  of  life,  in  love,  friendship,  and 
marriage,  how  little  security  have  we  when  we  trust  our  happi- 
ness in  the  hands  of  others !    Most  of  the  friends  I  have  seen 

25  have  turned  out  the  bitterest  enemies,  or  cold,  uncomfortable 
acquaintances.  Old  companions  are  like  meats  served  up  too 
often  that  lose  their  relish  and  their  wholesomeness.  He  who 
looks  at  beauty  to  admire,  to  adore  it,  who  reads  of  its  wondrous 
power  in  novels,  in  poems,  or  in  plays,  is  not  unwise :  but  let 

30  no  man  fall  in  love,  for  from  that  moment  he  is  "  the  baby  of  a 
girl."  I  like  very  well  to  repeat  such  lines  as  these  in  the  play 
Mirandola  — 

"  With  what  a  waving  air  she  goes 


Along  the  corridor.    I  low  Hke  a  favvn  ! 


ON   LIVING  TO  ONE'S-SELF  I35 

Yet  statelier.    Hark  !    No  sound,  however  soft, 
Nor  gentlest  echo  telleth  when  she  treads, 
But  every  motion  of  her  shape  doth  seem 
Hallowed  by  silence  " 

but  however  beautiful  the  description,  defend  me  from  meeting  5 

with  tlie  original ! 

"  The  fly  that  sips  treacle 
Is  lost  in  the  sweets  ; 
So  he  that  tastes  woman 

Ruin  meets."  10 

The  song  is  Gay's,  not  mine,  and  a  bitter-sweet  it  is.  —  How 
few  out  of  the  infinite  number  of  those  that  marry  and  are  given 
in  marriage,  wed  with  those  they  would  prefer  to  all  the  world  ; 
nay,  how  far  the  greater  proportion  are  joined  together  by  mere 
motives  of  convenience,  accident,  recommendation  of  friends,  15 
or  indeed  not  unfrequendy  by  the  very  fear  of  the  event,  by 
repugnance  and  a  sort  of  fatal  fascination  :  yet  the  tie  is  for  life, 
not  to  be  shaken  off  but  with  disgrace  or  death :  a  man  no  longer 
lives  to  himself,  but  is  a  body  (as  well  as  mind)  chained  to  an- 
other, in  spite  of  himself —  20 
"  Like  life  and  death  in  disproportion  met." 

So  Milton  (perhaps  from  his  own  experience)  makes  Adam 
exclaim  in  the  vehemence  of  his  despair, 

"  For  either 
lie  never  shall  find  out  fit  mate,  but  such  25 

As  some  misfortune  brings  him  or  mistake; 
Or  whom  he  wishes  most  shall  seldom  gain 
Through  her  perverseness,  but  shall  see  her  gain'd 
]>y  a  far  worse  ;  or  if  she  love,  withheld 

By  parents  ;  or  his  happiest  choice  too  late  30 

Shall  meet,  already  link'd  and  wedlock-bound 
To  a  fell  adversary,  his  hate  and  shame  ; 
Which  infinite  calamity  shall  cause 
To  human  life,  and  household  peace  confound." 

If  love  at  first  sight  were  mutual,  or  to  be  conciliated  by  kind  35 
offices;  if  the  fondest  affection  were  not  so  often  repaid  and 


136  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

chilled  by  indifference  and  scorn ;  if  so  many  lovers  both  before 
and  since  the  madman  in  Don  Quixote  had  not  "  worshipped  a 
statue,  hunted  the  wind,  cried  aloud  to  the  desert ;"  if  friendship 
were  lasting;  if  merit  were  renown,  and  renown  were  health, 
5  riches,  and  long  life ;  or  if  the  homage  of  the  world  were  paid 
to  conscious  worth  and  the  true  aspirations  after  excellence,  in- 
stead of  its  gaudy  signs  and  outward  trappings ;  then  indeed  I 
might  be  of  opinion  that  it  is  better  to  live  to  others  than  one's- 
self :  but  as  the  case  stands,  I  incline  to  the  negative  side  of 
10  the  question.^  — 

"  I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me  ; 
I  have  not  flattered  its  rank  breath,  nor  bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee  — 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles  —  nor  cried  aloud 
15  In  worship  of  an  echo  ;  in  the  crowd 

They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such ;  I  stood 

Among  them,  but  not  of  them  ;  in  a  shroud 

Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  and  still  could, 

Had  I  not  filed  my  mind  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

20  I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me  — 

But  let  us  part  fair  foes;  I  do  believe. 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  which  are  things  —  hopes  which  will  not  deceive, 
And  virtues  which  are  merciful  nor  weave 

25  Snares  for  the  failing:  I  would  also  deem 

O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve ; 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem  — 
That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream." 

Sweet  verse  embalms  the  spirit  of  sour  misanthropy :   but 

30  woe  betide  the  ignoble  prose-writer  who  should  thus  dare  to 

compare  notes  with  the  world,  or  tax  it  roundly  with  imposture. 

1  Shenstone  and  Gray  were  two  men,  one  of  whom  pretended  to  live  to  himself, 
and  the  other  really  did  so.  Gray  shrunk  from  the  public  gaze  (he  did  not  even 
like  his  portrait  to  be  prefi.xed  to  his  works)  into  his  own  thoughts  and  indolent 
musings ;  Shenstone  affected  privacy  that  he  might  be  sought  out  by  the  world ; 
the  one  courted  retirement  in  order  to  enjoy  leisure  and  repose,  as  the  other  co- 
quetted with  it,  merely  to  be  interrupted  with  the  importunity  of  visitors  and  the 
flatteries  of  absent  friends. 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S-SELF  1 37 

If  I  had  sufficient  provocation  to  rail  at  the  public,  as  Ben 
Jonson  did  at  the  audience  in  the  Prologues  to  his  plays,  I  think 
I  should  do  it  in  good  set  terms,  nearly  as  follows.  There  is 
not  a  more  mean,  stupid,  dastardly,  pitiful,  selfish,  spiteful,  envi- 
ous, ungrateful  animal  than  the  Public.  It  is  the  greatest  of  5 
cowards,  for  it  is  afraid  of  itself.  From  its  unwieldy,  overgrown 
dimensions,  it  dreads  the  least  opposition  to  it,  and  shakes  like 
isinglass  at  the  touch  of  a  finger.  It  starts  at  its  own  shadow, 
like  the  man  in  the  Hartz  mountains,  and  trembles  at  the  men- 
tion of  its  own  name.  It  has  a  lion's  mouth,  the  heart  of  a  hare,  10 
with  ears  erect  and  sleepless  eyes.  It  stands  "  listening  its  fears." 
It  is  so  in  awe  of  its  own  opinion,  that  it  never  dares  to  form 
any,  but  catches  up  the  first  idle  rumour,  lest  it  should  be  behind- 
hand in  its  judgment,  and  echoes  it  till  it  is  deafened  with  the 
sound  of  its  own  voice.  The  idea  of  what  the  public  will  think  1 5 
prevents  the  public  from  ever  thinking  at  all,  and  acts  as  a  spell 
on  the  exercise  of  private  judgment,  so  that  in  short  the  public 
ear  is  at  the  mercy  of  the  first  impudent  pretender  who  chooses 
to  fill  it  with  noisy  assertions,  or  false  surmises,  or  secret  whis- 
pers. What  is  said  by  one  is  heard  by  all ;  the  supposition  that  20 
a  thing  is  known  to  all  the  world  makes  all  the  world  believe  it, 
and  the  hollow  repetition  of  a  vague  report  drowns  the  "  still, 
small  voice  "  of  reason.  We  may  believe  or  know  that  what  is 
said  is  not  true :  but  we  know  or  fancy  that  others  believe  it  — 
we  dare  not  contradict  or  are  too  indolent  to  dispute  with  them,  25 
and  therefore  give  up  our  internal,  and,  as  we  think,  our  solitary 
conviction  to  a  sound  without  substance,  without  proof,  and  often 
without  meaning.  Nay  more,  we  may  believe  and  know  not 
only  that  a  thing  is  false,  but  that  others  believe  and  know  it  to 
be  so,  that  they  are  quite  as  much  in  the  secret  of  the  impos-  30 
ture  as  we  are,  that  they  see  the  puppets  at  work,  the  nature  of 
the  machinery,  and  yet  if  any  one  has  the  art  or  power  to  get  the 
management  of  it,  he  shall  keep  possession  of  the  public  ear  by 
virtue  of  a  cant-phrase  or  nickname ;  and  by  dint  of  effrontery 


138  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

and  perseverance  make  all  the  world  believe  and  repeat  what 
all  the  world  know  to  be  false.  The  ear  is  quicker  than  the 
judgment.  We  know  that  certain  things  are  said ;  by  that  cir- 
cumstance alone,  we  know  that  they  produce  a  certain  effect  on 

5  the  imagination  of  others,  and  we  conform  to  their  prejudices 
by  mechanical  sympathy,  and  for  want  of  sufficient  spirit  to 
differ  with  them.  So  far  then  is  public  opinion  from  resting  on 
a  broad  and  solid  basis,  as  the  aggregate  of  thought  and  feeling 
in  a  community,  that  it  is  slight  and  shallow  and' variable  to  the 

10  last  degree — the  bubble  of  the  moment — so  that  we  may  safely 
say  the  public  is  the  dupe  of  public  opinion,  not  its  parent.  The 
public  is  pusillanimous  and  cowardly,  because  it  is  weak.  It 
knows  itself  to  be  a  great  dunce,  and  that  it  has  no  opinions 
but  upon  suggestion.    Yet  it  is  unwilling  to  appear  in  leading- 

15  strings,  and  would  have  it  thought  that  its  decisions  are  as  wise 
as  they  are  weighty.  It  is  hasty  in  taking  up  its  favourites, 
more  hasty  in  laying  them  aside,  lest  it  should  be  supposed  de- 
ficient in  sagacity  in  either  case.  It  is  generally  divided  into  two 
strong  parties,  each  of  which  will  allow  neither  common  sense 

20  nor  common  honesty  to  the  other  side.  It  reads  the  Edinburgh 
and  Quarterly  Reviews,  and  believes  them  both  —  or  if  there  is 
a  doubt,  malice  turns  the  scale.  Taylor  and  Hessey  told  me  that 
they  had  sold  nearly  two  editions  of  the  Characters  of  Shake- 
spear's  Plays  in  about  three  months,  but  that  after  the  Quarterly 

25  Review  of  them  came  out,  they  never  sold  another  copy.  The 
public,  enlightened  as  they  are,  must  have  known  the  meaning 
of  that  attack  as  well  as  those  who  made  it.  It  was  not  igno- 
rance then  but  cowardice,  that  led  them  to  give  up  their  own 
opinion.    A  crew  of  mischievous  critics  at   Edinburgh  having 

30  affixed  the  epithet  of  the  Cockney  School  to  one  or  two  writers 
born  in  the  metropolis,  all  the  people  in  London  became  afraid 
of  looking  into  their  works,  lest  they  too  should  be  convicted  of 
cockneyism.  Oh  brave  public !  This  epithet  proved  too  much 
for  one  of  the  writers  in  question,  and  stuck  like  a  barbed  arrow 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S-SELF  I  39 

in  his  heart.  Poor  Keats  !  What  was  sport  to  the  town  was 
death  to  him.    Young,  sensitive,  delicate,  he  was  like 

"  A  bud  bit  by  an  envious  worm, 
Ere  he  could  spread  his  sweet  leaves  to  the  air, 
Or  dedicate  his  beauty  to  the  sun  " —  S 

and  unable  to  endure  the  miscreant  cry  and  idiot  laugh,  with- 
drew to  sigh  his  last  breath  in  foreign  climes.  —  The  public  is 
as  envious  and  ungrateful  as  it  is  ignorant,  stupid,  and  pigeon- 

livered  — 

"A  huge-sized  monster  of  ingratitudes."  lo 

It  reads,  it  admires,  it  extols  only  because  it  is  the  fashion, 
not  from  any  love  of  the  subject  or  the  man.  It  cries  you  up 
or  runs  you  down  out  of  mere  caprice  and  levity.  If  you  have 
pleased  it,  it  is  jealous  of  its  own  involuntary  acknowledgment 
of  merit,  and  seizes  the  first  opportunity,  the  first  shabby  pre-  15 
text,  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  you,  and  be  quits  once  more.  Every 
petty  caviller  is  erected  into  a  judge,  every  tale-bearer  is  im- 
plicitly believed.  Every  little  low  paltry  creature  that  gaped  and 
wondered  only  because  others  did  so,  is  glad  to  find  you  (as 
he  thinks)  on  a  level  with  himself.  An  author  is  not  then,  after  20 
all,  a  being  of  another  order.  Public  admiration  is  forced,  and 
goes  against  the  grain.  Public  obloquy  is  cordial  and  sincere : 
every  individual  feels  his  own  importance  in  it.  They  give  you 
up  bound  hand  and  foot  into  the  power  of  your  accusers.  To 
attempt  to  defend  yourself  is  a  high  crime  and  misdemeanour,  25 
a  contempt  of  court,  an  extreme  piece  of  impertinence.  Or  if 
you  prove  every  charge  unfounded,  they  never  think  of  retract- 
ing their  error,  or  making  you  amends.  It  would  be  a  compro- 
mise of  their  dignity;  they  consider  themselves  as  the  party 
injured,  and  resent  your  innocence  as  an  imputation  on  their  30 
judgment.  The  celebrated  Bub  Doddington,  when  out  of  favour 
at  court,  said  "he  would  not  Justify  before  his  sovereign  :  it  was 
for  Majesty  to  be  displeased,  and  for  him  to  believe  himself  in 


I40  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

the  wrong!"  The  public  are  not  quite  so  modest.  People 
already  begin  to  talk  of  the  Scotch  Novels  as  overrated.  How- 
then  can  common  authors  be  supposed  to  keep  their  heads  long 
above  water .?  As  a  general  rule,  all  those  who  live  by  the  public 
5  starve,  and  are  made  a  bye-word  and  a  standing  jest  into  the 
bargain.  Posterity  is  no  better  (not  a  bit  more  enlightened  or 
more  liberal),  except  that  you  are  no  longer  in  their  power,  and 
that  the  voice  of  common  fame  saves  them  the  trouble  of  decid- 
ing on  your  claims.    The  public  now  are  the  posterity  of  Milton 

lo  and  Shakespear.  Our  posterity  will  be  the  living  public  of  a 
future  generation.  When  a  man  is  dead,  they  put  money  in  his 
coffin,  erect  monuments  to  his  memory,  and  celebrate  the  anni- 
versary of  his  birth-day  in  set  speeches.  Would  they  take  any 
notice  of  him  if  he  were  living  ?    No  !  —  I  was  complaining  of 

15  this  to  a  Scotchman  who  had  been  attending  a  dinner  and  a 
subscription  to  raise  a  monument  to  Burns.  He  replied  he 
would  sooner  subscribe  twenty  pounds  to  his  monument  than 
have  given  it  him  while  living ;  so  that  if  the  poet  were  to  come 
to  life  again,  he  would  treat  him  just  as  he  was  treated  in  fact. 

20  This  was  an  honest  Scotchman.   What  he  said,  the  rest  would  do. 
Enough :  my  soul,  turn  from  them,  and  let  me  try  to  regain 
the  obscurity  and  quiet  that  I  love,  "  far  from  the  madding 
strife,"  in  some  sequestered  corner  of  my  own,  or  in  some  far- 
distant  land !    In  the  latter  case,  I  might  carry  with  me  as  a 

25  consolation  the  passage  in  Bolingbroke's  Reflections  on  Exile, 
in  which  he  describes  in  glowing  colours  the  resources  which  a 
man  may  always  find  within  himself,  and  of  which  the  world 
cannot  deprive  him. 

"  Believe  me,  the  providence  of  God  has  established  such  an 

30  order  in  the  world,  that  of  all  which  belongs  to  us,  the  least 
valuable  parts  can  alone  fall  under  the  will  of  others.  Whatever 
is  best  is  safest ;  lies  out  of  the  reach  of  human  power ;  can 
neither  be  given  nor  taken  away.  Such  is  this  great  and  beauti- 
ful work  of  nature,  the  world.    Such  is  the  mind  of  man,  which 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S-SELF  141 

contemplates  and  admires  the  world  whereof  it  makes  the 
noblest  part.  These  are  inseparably  ours,  and  as  long  as  we 
remain  in  one  we  shall  enjoy  the  other.  Let  us  march  therefore 
intrepidly  wherever  we  are  led  by  the  course  of  human  accidents. 
Wherever  they  lead  us,  on  what  coast  soever  we  are  thrown  by  5 
them,  we  shall  not  find  ourselves  absolutely  strangers.  We  shall 
feel  the  same  revolution  of  seasons,  and  the  same  sun  and 
moon  ^  will  guide  the  course  of  our  year.  The  same  azure  vault, 
bespangled  with  stars,  will  be  every  where  spread  over  our  heads. 
There  is  no  part  of  the  world  from  whence  we  may  not  admire  10 
those  planets  which  roll,  like  ours,  in  different  orbits  round  the 
same  central  sun ;  from  whence  we  may  not  discover  an  object 
still  more  stupendous,  that  army  of  fixed  stars  hung  up  in  the 
immense  space  of  the  universe,  innumerable  suns  whose  beams 
enlighten  and  cherish  the  unknown  worlds  which  roll  around  15 
them  ;  and  whilst  I  am  ravished  by  such  contemplations  as 
these,  whilst  my  soul  is  thus  raised  up  to  heaven,  imports  me 
little  what  ground  I  tread  upon." 

1  "  Plut.  of  Banishment.  He  compares  those  who  cannot  live  out  of  their  own 
country,  to  the  simple  people  who  fancied  the  moon  of  Athens  was  a  finer  moon 
than  that  of  Corinth. 

Labentcm  coelo  qua:  ducltis  annum. 

Virg.  Georg." 


ON  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE 

I  have  naturally  but  little  imagination,  and  am  not  of  a  very 
sanguine  turn  of  mind.  I  have  some  desire  to  enjoy  the  present 
good,  and  some  fondness  for  the  past ;  but  I  am  not  at  all  given 
to  building  castles  in  the  air,  nor  to  look  forward  with  much 

5  confidence  or  hope  to  the  brilliant  illusions  held  out  by  the  future. 
Hence  I  have  perhaps  been  led  to  form  a  theory,  which  is  very 
contrary  to  the  common  notions  and  feelings  on  the  subject, 
and  which  I  will  here  try  to  explain  as  well  as  I  can.  —  When 
Steme  in  the  Sentimental  Journey  told  the  French  Minister  that 

lo  if  the  French  people  had  a  fault,  it  was  that  they  were  too  seri- 
ous, the  latter  replied  that  if  that  was  his  opinion,  he  must 
defend  it  with  all  his  might,  for  he  would  have  all  the  world 
against  him ;  so  I  shall  have  enough  to  do  to  get  well  through 
the  present  argument. 

15  I  cannot  see,  then,  any  rational  or  logical  ground  for  that 
mighty  difference  in  the  value  which  mankind  generally  set  upon 
the  past  and  future,  as  if  the  one  was  every  thing  and  the  other 
nothing,  of  no  consequence  whatever.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
conceive  that  the  past  is  as  real  and  substantial  a  part  of  our 

20  being,  that  it  is  as  much  a  bona  fide,  undeniable  consideration 
in  the  estimate  of  human  life,  as  the  future  can  possibly  be.  To 
say  that  the  past  is  of  no  importance,  unworthy  of  a  moment's 
regard,  because  it  has  gone  by,  and  is  no  longer  any  thing,  is  an 
argument  that  cannot  be  held  to  any  purpose :  for  if  the  past 

;S  has  ceased  to  be,  and  is  therefore  to  be  accounted  nothing  in 
the  scale  of  good  or  evil,  the  future  is  yet  to  come,  and  has 
never  been  any  thing.  Should  any  one  choose  to  assert  that  the 
present  only  is  of  any  value  in  a  strict  and  positive  sense,  because 

142 


ON  thp:  past  and  future  143 

that  alone  has  a  real  existence,  that  we  should  seize  the  instant 
good  and  give  all  else  to  the  winds,  I  can  understand  what  he 
means  (though  perhaps  he  does  not  himself)  ^ :  but  I  cannot 
comprehend  how  this  distinction  between  that  which  has  a  down- 
right and  sensible,  and  that  which  has  only  a  remote  and  airy  5 
existence,  can  be  applied  to  establish  the  preference  of  the  future 
over  the  past ;  for  both  are  in  this  point  of  view  equally  ideal, 
absolutely  nothing,  except  as  they  are  conceived  of  by  the  mind's 
eye,  and  are  thus  rendered  present  to  the  thoughts  and  feelings. 
Nay,  the  one  is  even  more  imaginary,  a  more  fantastic  creature  10 
of  the  brain  than  the  other,  and  the  interest  we  take  in  it  more 
shadowy  and  gratuitous ;  for  the  future,  on  which  we  lay  so 
much  stress,  may  never  come  to  pass  at  all,  that  is,  may  never 
be  embodied  into  actual  existence  in  the  whole  course  of  events, 
whereas  the  past  has  certainly  existed  once,  has  received  the  15 
stamp  of  truth,  and  left  an  image  of  itself  behind.  It  is  so  far 
then  placed  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt,  or  as  the  poet 

has  it, 

"  Those  joys  are  lodg'd  beyond  the  reach  of  fate." 

It  is  not,  however,  attempted  to  be  denied  that  though  the  future  20 
is  nothing  at  present,  and  has  no  immediate  interest  while  we 
are  speaking,  yet  it  is  of  the  utmost  consequence  in  itself,  and 
of  the  utmost  interest  to  the  individual,  because  it  will  have  a 
real  existence,  and  we  have  an  idea  of  it  as  existing  in  time  to 
come.  Well  then,  the  past  also  has  no  real  existence  ;  the  actual  25 
sensation  and  the  interest  belonging  to  it  are  both  fled  ;  but  it 
has  had  a  real  existence,  and  we  can  still  call  up  a  vivid  recol- 
lection of  it  as  having  once  been ;  and  therefore,  by  parity  of 
reasoning,  it  is  not  a  thing  perfectly  insignificant  in  itself,  nor 
wholly  indifferent  to  the  mind,  whether  it  ever  was  or  not.    Oh  30 

1  If  we  take  away  from  the  present  the  moment  that  is  just  gone  by  and  the 
moment  that  is  next  to  come,  how  much  of  it  will  be  left  for  this  plain,  practical 
theory  to  rest  upon  ?  Their  solid  basis  of  sense  and  reality  will  reduce  itself  to  a 
pin's  point,  a  hair-line,  on  which  our  moral  balance-masters  will  have  some  diffi- 
culty to  maintain  their  footing  without  falling  over  on  either  side. 


144  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

no !  Far  from  it !  Let  us  not  rashly  quit  our  hold  upon  the 
past,  when  perhaps  there  may  be  little  else  left  to  bind  us  to 
existence.  Is  it  nothing  to  have  been,  and  to  have  been  happy 
or  miserable  ?    Or  is  it  a  matter  of  no  moment  to  think  whether 

5  I  have  been  one  or  the  other  ?  Do  I  delude  myself,  do  I  build 
upon  a  shadow  or  a  dream,  do  I  dress  up  in  the  gaudy  garb  of 
idleness  and  folly  a  pure  fiction,  with  nothing  answering  to  it 
in  the  universe  of  things  and  the  records  of  truth,  when  I  look 
back  with  fond  delight  or  with  tender  regret  to  that  which  was 

lo  at  one  time  to  me  my  all,  when  I  revive  the  glowing  image  of 
some  bright  reality, 

"  The  thoughts  of  which  can  never  from  my  heart "  ? 

Do  I  then  muse  on  nothing,  do  I  bend  my  eyes  on  nothing, 
when  I  turn  back  in  fancy  to  "those  suns  and  skies  so  pure"  that 
15  lighted  up  my  early  path?  Is  it  to  think  of  nothing,  to  set  an 
idle  value  upon  nothing,  to  think  of  all  that  has  happened  to 
me,  and  of  all  that  can  ever  interest  me  ?  Or,  to  use  the  lan- 
guage of  a  fine  poet  (who  is  himself  among  my  earliest  and  not 
least  painful  recollections)  — 

20  "  What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 

Be  now  for  ever  vanish'd  from  my  sight, 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  glory  in  the  grass,  of  splendour  in  the  flow'r  "  — 

yet  am  I  mocked  with  a  lie,  when  I  venture  to  think  of  it  ?   Or 
25  do  I  not  drink  in  and  breathe  again  the  air  of  heavenly  truth, 
when  I  but  "  retrace  its  footsteps,  and  its  skirts  far  off  adore  "  ? 
I  cannot  say  with  the  same  poet  — 

"  And  see  how  dark  the  backward  stream, 
A  little  moment  past  so  smiling"  — 

30  for  it  is  the  past  that  gives  me  most  delight  and  most  assurance 
of  reality.  What  to  me  constitutes  the  great  charm  of  the  Con- 
fessions of  Rousseau  is  their  turning  so  much  upon  this  feeling. 
He  seems  to  gather  up  the  past  moments  of  his  being  like  drops 


ON  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE  I45 

of  honcy-dcw  to  distil  a  precious  liquor  from  them  ;  his  alternate 
pleasures  and  pains  are  the  bead-roll  that  he  tells  over,  and  piously 
worships ;  he  makes  a  rosary  of  the  flowers  of  hope  and  fancy 
that  strewed  his  earliest  years.  When  he  begins  the  last  of  the 
Reveries  of  a  Solitary  Walker,  "  //  y  a  aujourd'hui,  joicr  des  5 
Paqucs  Fleuris,  cinquante  ans  depuis  que  f  ai prernier  vu  Madame 
JVarens,"  what  a  yearning  of  the  soul  is  implied  in  that  short 
sentence !  Was  all  that  had  happened  to  him,  all  that  he  had 
thought  and  felt  in  that  sad  interval  of  time,  to  be  accounted 
nothing?  Was  that  long,  dim,  faded  retrospect  of  years  happy  10 
or  miserable,  a  blank  that  was  not  to  make  his  eyes  fail  and  his 
heart  faint  within  him  in  trying  to  grasp  all  that  had  once  filled 
it  and  that  had  since  vanished,  because  it  was  not  a  prospect 
into  futurity  ?  Was  he  wrong  in  finding  more  to  interest  him  in 
it  than  in  the  next  fifty  years  —  which  he  did  not  live  to  see ;  1 5 
or  if  he  had,  what  then  ?  Would  they  have  been  worth  thinking 
of,  compared  with  the  times  of  his  youth,  of  his  first  meeting  with 
Madame  Warens,  with  those  times  which  he  has  traced  with  such 
truth  and  pure  delight  "  in  our  heart's  tables  "  ?  When  "  all  the 
life  of  life  was  flown,"  was  he  not  to  live  the  first  and  best  part  20 
of  it  over  again,  and  once  more  be  all  that  he  then  was  ?  —  Ye 
woods  that  crown  the  clear  lone  brow  of  Norman  Court,  why 
do  I  revisit  ye  so  oft,  and  feel  a  soothing  consciousness  of  your 
presence,  but  that  your  high  tops  waving  in  the  wind  recal  to 
me  the  hours  and  years  that  are  for  ever  fled,  that  ye  renew  25 
in  ceaseless  murmurs  the  story  of  long-cherished  hopes  and  bitter 
disappointment,  that  in  your  solitudes  and  tangled  wilds  I  can 
wander  and  lose  myself  as  I  wander  on  and  am  lost  in  the  soli- 
tude of  my  own  heart ;  and  that  as  your  rustling  branches  give 
the  loud  blast  to  the  waste  below  —  borne  on  the  thoughts  of  30 
other  years,  I  can  look  down  with  patient  anguish  at  the  cheer- 
less desolation  which  I  feel  within  !  Without  that  face  pale  as 
the  primrose  with  hyacinthine  locks,  for  ever  shunning  and  for 
ever  haunting  me,  mocking  my  waking  thoughts  as  in  a  dream, 


146  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

without  that  smile  which  my  heart  could  never  turn  to  scorn, 
without  those  eyes  dark  with  their  own  lustre,  still  bent  on  mine, 
and  drawing  the  soul  into  their  liquid  mazes  like  a  sea  of  love, 
without  that  name  trembling  in  fancy's  ear,  without  that  form 
5  gliding  before  me  like  Oread  or  Dryad  in  fabled  groves,  what 
should  I  do,  how  pass  away  the  listless  leaden-footed  hours  ? 
Then  wave,  wave  on,  ye  woods  of  Tuderley,  and  lift  your  high 
tops  in  the  air ;  my  sighs  and  vows  uttered  by  your  mystic  voice 
breathe  into  me  my  former  being,  and  enable  me  to  bear  the 

10  thing  I  am  !  —  The  objects  that  we  have  known  in  better  days 
are  the  main  props  that  sustain  the  weight  of  our  affections,  and 
give  us  strength  to  await  our  future  lot.  The  future  is  like  a 
dead  wall  or  a  thick  mist  hiding  all  objects  from  our  view :  the 
past  is  alive  and  stirring  with  objects,  bright  or  solemn,  and  of 

1 5  unfading  interest.  What  is  it  in  fact  that  we  recur  to  oftenest .? 
What  subjects  do  we  think  or  talk  of  ?  Not  the  ignorant  future, 
but  the  well-stored  past.  Othello,  the  Moor  of  Venice,  amused 
himself  and  his  hearers  at  the  house  of  Signor  Brabantio  by 
"  running  through  the  story  of  his  life  even  from  his  boyish 

20  days ;  "  and  oft  "  beguiled  them  of  their  tears,  when  he  did 
speak  of  some  disastrous  stroke  which  his  youth  suffered." 
This  plan  of  ingratiating  himself  would  not  have  answered,  if 
the  past  had  been,  like  the  contents  of  an  old  almanac,  of  no 
use  but  to  be  thrown  aside  and  forgotten.    What  a  blank,  for 

25^  instance,  does  the  history  of  the  world  for  the  next  six  thousand 
years  present  to  the  mind,  compared  with  that  of  the  last !  All 
that  strikes  the  imagination  or  excites  any  interest  in  the  mighty 
scene  is  what  has  bee?i !  ^ 

1  A  treatise  on  the  Millennium  is  dull ;  but  who  was  ever  weary  of  reading  the 
fables  of  the  Golden  Age  ?  On  my  once  observing  I  should  like  to  have  been 
Claude,  a  person  said,  "  they  should  not,  for  that  then  by  this  time  it  would  have 
been  all  over  with  them."  As  if  it  could  possibly  signify  when  we  live  (save  and 
excepting  the  present  minute),  or  as  if  the  value  of  human  life  decreased  or  in- 
creased with  successive  centuries.  At  that  rate,  we  had  better  have  our  life  still 
to  come  at  some  future  period,  and  so  postpone  our  existence  century  after 
century  ad  injimlum. 


ON  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE  1 47 

Neither  in  itself  then,  nor  as  a  subject  of  general  contem- 
plation, has  the  future  any  advantage  over  the  past.    But  with 
respect  to  our  grosser  passions  and  pursuits  it  has.    As  far  as 
regards  the  appeal  to  the  understanding  or  the  imagination,  the 
past  is  just  as  good,  as  real,  of  as  much  intrinsic  and  ostensible  5 
value  as  the  future  :  but  there  is  another  principle  in  the  human 
mind,  the  principle  of  action  or  will ;   and  of  this  the  past  has 
no  hold,  the  future  engrosses  it  entirely  to  itself.     It  is  this 
strong  lever  of  the  affections  that  gives  so  powerful  a  bias 
to  our  sentiments  on  this  subject,  and  violently  transposes  the  10 
natural  order  of  our  associations.    We  regret  the  pleasures  we 
have  lost,  and  eagerly  anticipate   those  which   are  to  come : 
we  dwell  with  satisfaction  on  the  evils  from  which  we  have 
escaped  {Posthcec  ?neminisse  Juvabif)  —  and  dread  future  pain. 
The  good  that  is  past  is  in  this  sense  like  money  that  is  spent,  15 
which  is  of  no  further  use,  and  about  which  we  give  ourselves 
little  concern.  The  good  we  expect  is  like  a  store  yet  untouched, 
and  in  the  enjoyment  of  which  we  promise  ourselves  infinite 
gratification.    What  has  happened  to  us  we  think  of  no  conse- 
quence :    what  is  to  happen  to  us,  of  the  greatest.    Why  so  ?  20 
Simply  because  the  one  is  still  in  our  power,  and  the  other  not 
—  because  the  efforts  of  the  will  to  bring  any  object  to  pass 
or  to  prevent  it  strengthen  our  attachment  or  aversion  to  that 
object  —  because  the  pains  and  attention  bestowed  upon  any 
thing  add  to  our  interest  in  it,  and  because  the  habitual  and  25 
earnest  pursuit  of  any  end  redoubles  the  ardour  of  our  expec- 
tations, and  converts  the  speculative  and  indolent  satisfaction  we 
might  otherwise  feel  in  it  into  real  passion.   Our  regrets,  anxiety, 
and  wishes  are  thrown  away  upon  the  past :  but  the  insisting 
on  the  importance  of  the  future  is  of  the  utmost  use  in  aiding  30 
our  resolutions,  and  stimulating  our  exertions.   If  the  future  were 
no  more  amenable  to  our  wills  than  the  past ;  if  our  precautions, 
our  sanguine  schemes,  our  hopes  and  fears  were  of  as  little 
avail  in  the  one  case  as  the  other ;  if  we  could  neither  soften 


148  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

our  minds  to  pleasure,  nor  steel  our  fortitude  to  the  resistance 
of  pain  beforehand  ;  if  all  objects  drifted  along  by  us  like  straws 
or  pieces  of  wood  in  a  river,  the  will  being  purely  passive,  and 
as  little  able  to  avert  the  future  as  to  arrest  the  past,  we  should 
5  in  that  case  be  equally  indifferent  to  both  ;  that  is,  we  should  con- 
sider each  as  they  affected  the  thoughts  and  imagination  with 
certain  sentiments  of  approbation  or  regret,  but  without  the 
importunity  of  action,  the  irritation  of  the  will,  throwing  the 
whole  weight  of  passion  and  prejudice  into  one  scale,  and  leav- 

10  ing  the  other  quite  empty.  While  the  blow  is  coming,  we  prepare 
to  meet  it,  we  think  to  ward  off  or  break  its  force,  we  arm  our- 
selves with  patience  to  endure  what  cannot  be  avoided,  we  agitate 
ourselves  with  fifty  needless  alarms  about  it ;  but  when  the  blow 
is  struck,  the  pang  is  over,  the  struggle  is  no  longer  necessary, 

1 5  and  we  cease  to  harass  or  torment  ourselves  about  it  more  than 
we  can  help.  It  is  not  that  the  one  belongs  to  the  future  and 
the  other  to  time  past ;  but  that  the  one  is  a  subject  of  action, 
of  uneasy  apprehension,  of  strong  passion,  and  that  the  other 
has  passed  wholly  out  of  the  sphere  of  action,  into  the  region  of 

20  "  Calm  contemplation  and  majestic  pains."  ^ 

It  would  not  give  a  man  more  concern  to  know  that  he  should 
be  put  to  the  rack  a  year  hence,  than  to  recollect  that  he  had 
been  put  to  it  a  year  ago,  but  that  he  hopes  to  avoid  the  one, 
whereas  he  must  sit  down  patiently  under  the  consciousness  of 
25  the  other.  In  this  hope  he  wears  himself  out  in  vain  struggles 
with  fate,  and  puts  himself  to  the  rack  of  his  imagination  every 
day  he  has  to  live  in  the  mean  while.  When  the  event  is  so 
remote  or  so  independent  of  the  will  as  to  set  aside  the  necessity 
of  immediate  action,  or  to  baffle  all  attempts  to  defeat  it,  it  gives 

1  In  like  manner,  though  we  know  that  an  event  must  have  taken  place  at  a 
distance,  long  before  we  can  hear  the  result,  yet  as  long  as  we  remain  in  igno- 
rance of  it,  we  irritate  ourselves  about  it,  and  suffer  all  the  agonies  of  suspense, 
as  if  it  was  still  to  come  ;  but  as  soon  as  our  uncertainty  is  removed,  our  fretful 
impatience  vanishes,  we  resign  ourselves  to  fate,  and  make  up  our  minds  to  what 
has  happened  as  well  as  we  can. 


ON  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE  I49 

us  little  more  disturbance  or  emotion  than  if  it  had  already  taken 
place,  or  were  something  to  hap]:)cn  in  another  state  of  being, 
or  to  an  indifferent  person.  Criminals  are  observed  to  grow- 
more  anxious  as  their  trial  approaches ;  but  after  their  sentence 
is  passed,  they  become  tolerably  resigned,  and  generally  sleep  5 
sound  the  night  before  its  execution. 

It  in  some  measure  confirms  this  theory,  that  men  attach 
more  or  less  importance  to  past  and  future  events,  according 
as  they  are  more  or  less  engaged  in  action  and  the  busy  scenes 
of  life.  Those  who  have  a  fortune  to  make  or  are  in  pursuit  of  10 
rank  and  power  think  little  of  the  past,  for  it  does  not  contrib- 
ute greatly  to  their  views  :  those  who  have  nothing  to  do  but  to 
think,  take  nearly  the  same  interest  in  the  past  as  in  the  future. 
The  contemplation  of  the  one  is  as  delightful  and  real  as  that 
of  the  other.  The  season  of  hope  has  an  end  ;  but  the  remem-  15 
brance  of  it  is  left.  The  past  still  lives  in  the  memory  of  those 
who  have  leisure  to  look  back  upon  the  way  that  they  have  trod, 
and  can  from  it  "  catch  glimpses  that  may  make  them  less  for- 
lorn." The  turbulence  of  action,  and  uneasiness  of  desire,  must 
point  to  the  future :  it  is  only  in  the  quiet  innocence  of  shep-  20 
herds,  in  the  simplicity  of  pastoral  ages,  that  a  tomb  was  found 
with  this  inscription  —  ''1  also  was  an  Arcadian  !  " 

Though  I  by  no  means  think  that  our  habitual  attachment  to 
life  is  in  exact  proportion  to  the  value  of  the  gift,  yet  I  am  not 
one  of  those  splenetic  persons  who  affect  to  think  it  of  no  value  25 
at  all.  Que  pen  de  chose  est  la  vie  humaine  —  is  an  exclamation 
in  the  mouths  of  moralists  and  philosophers,  to  which  I  cannot 
agree.  It  is  litrie,  it  is  short,  it  is  not  worth  having,  if  we  take 
the  last  hour,  and  leave  out  all  that  has  gone  before,  which  has 
been  one  way  of  looking  at  the  subject.  Such  calculators  seem  30 
to  say  that  life  is  nothing  when  it  is  over,  and  that  may  in  their 
sense  be  true.  If  the  old  xvi\c  —  Jiespice  Jinem  —  were  to  be 
made  absolute,  and  no  one  could  be  pronounced  fortunate  till 
the  day  of  his  death,,  there  are  few  among  us  whose  existence 


I50  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

would,  upon  those  conditions,  be  much'  to  be  envied.  But  this 
is  not  a  fair  view  of  the  case.  A  man's  life  is  his  whole  life, 
not  the  last  glimmering  snuff  of  the  candle ;  and  this,  I  say, 
is  considerable,  and  not  a  little  matter^  whether  we  regard  its 
5  pleasures  or  its  pains.  To  draw  a  peevish  conclusion  to  the 
contrary  from  our  own  superannuated  desires  or  forgetful  in- 
difference is  about  as  reasonable  as  to  say,  a  man  never  was 
young  because  he  has  grown  old,  or  never  lived  because  he  is 
now  dead.    The  length  or  agreeableness  of  a  journey  does  not 

lo  depend  on  the  few  last  steps  of  it,  nor  is  the  size  of  a  building 
to  be  judged  of  from  the  last  stone  that  is  added  to  it.  It  is 
neither  the  first  nor  last  hour  of  our  existence,  but  the  space 
that  parts  these  two  —  not  our  exit  nor  our  entrance  upon  the 
stage,  but  what  we  do,  feel,  and  think  while  there  —  that  we 

15  are  to  attend  to  in  pronouncing  sentence  upon  it.  Indeed  it 
would  be  easy  to  shew  that  it  is  the  very  extent  of  human  life, 
the  infinite  number  of  things  contained  in  it,  its  contradictory 
and  fluctuating  interests,  the  transition  from  one  situation  to 
another,  the  hours,  months,  years  spent  in  one  fond  pursuit 

20  after  another  ;  that  it  is,  in  a  word,  the  length  of  our  common 
journey  and  the  quantity  of  events  crowded  into  it,  that,  baf- 
fling the  grasp  of  our  actual  perception,  make  it  slide  from  our 
memory,  and  dwindle  into  nothing  in  its  own  perspective.  It  is 
too  mighty  for  us,  and  we  say  it  is  nothing !    It  is  a  speck  in 

25  our  fancy,  and  yet  what  canvas  would  be  big  enough  to  hold 
its  striking  groups,  its  endless  subjects !  It  is  light  as  vanity, 
and  yet  if  all  its  weary  moments,  if  all  its  head  and  heart  aches 
were  compressed  into  one,  what  fortitude  would  not  be  over- 
whelmed with  the  blow !    What  a  huge  heap,  a  "  huge,  dumb 

30  heap,"  of  wishes,  thoughts,  feelings,  anxious  cares,  soothing 
hopes,  loves,  joys,  friendships,  it  is  composed  of!  How  many 
ideas  and  trains  of  sentiment,  long  and  deep  and  intense,  often 
pass  through  the  mind  in  only  one  day's  thinking  or  reading, 
for  instance !    How  many  such  days  are  .there  in  a  year,  how 


ON  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE  151 

many  years  in  a  long  life,  still  occupied  with  something  inter- 
esting, still  recalling  some  old  impression,  still  recurring  to  some 
difficult  question  and  making  progress  in  it,  every  step  accom- 
panied with  a  sense  of  power,  and  every  moment  conscious  of 
"  the  high  endeavour  or  the  glad  success  ;  "  for  the  mind  seizes  5 
only  on  that  which  keeps  it  employed,  and  is  wound  up  to  a 
certain  pitch  of  pleasurable  excitement  or  lively  solicitude,  by 
the  necessity  of  its  own  nature.  The  division  of  the  map  of  life 
into  the  component  parts  is  beautifully  made  by  King  Henry  VI. 

"  Oh  God  !  methinks  it  were  a  happy  life  10 

To  be  no  better  than  a  homely  swain, 
To  sit  upon  a  hill  as  I  do  now, 
To  carve  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point. 
Thereby  to  see  the  minutes  how  they  run ; 
How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete,  15 

How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day, 
How  many  days  will  finish  up  the  year. 
How  many  years  a  mortal  man  may  live  : 
When  this  is  known,  then  to  divide  the  times ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  tend  my  flock,  20 

So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest. 
So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate, 
So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself ; 
So  many  days  my  ewes  have  been  with  young. 
So  many  weeks  ere  the  poor  fools  will  yean,  25 

So  many  months  ere  I  shall  shear  the  fleece : 
So  many  minutes,  hours,  weeks,  months,  and  years 
Past  over  to  the  end  they  were  created. 
Would  bring  grey  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave." 

I  myself  am  neither  a  king  nor  a  shepherd :  books  have  been  30 
my  fleecy  charge,  and  my  thoughts  have  been  my  subjects. 
But  these  have  found  me  sufficient  employment  at  the  time, 
and  enough  to  think  of  for  the  time  to  come. 

The  passions  contract  and  warp  the  natural  progress  of  life. 
They  paralyse  all  of  it  that  is  not  devoted  to  their  tyranny  35 
and  caprice.    This  makes  the  difference  between  the  laughing 
innocence   of  childhood,  the  pleasantness  of   youth,  and    the 


152  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

crabbedness  of  age.  A  load  of  cares  lies  like  a  weight  of  guilt 
upon  the  mind :  so  that  a  man  of  business  often  has  all  the  air, 
the  distraction  and  restlessness  and  hurry  of  feeling  of  a  criminal. 
A  knowledge  of  the  world  takes  away  the  freedom  and  simplicity 

5  of  thought  as  effectually  as  the  contagion  of  its  example.  The 
artlessness  and  candour  of  our  early  years  are  open  to  all  impres- 
sions alike,  because  the  mind  is  not  clogged  and  pre-occupied 
with  other  objects.  Our  pleasures  and  our  pains  come  single, 
make  room  for  one  another,  and  the  spring  of  the  mind  is  fresh 

lo  and  unbroken,  its  aspect  clear  and  unsullied.  Hence  "  the  tear 
forgot  as  soon  as  shed,  the  sunshine  of  the  breast."  But  as  we 
advance  farther,  the  will  gets  greater  head.  We  form  violent 
antipathies,  and  indulge  exclusive  preferences.  We  make  up  our 
minds  to  some  one  thing,  and  if  we  cannot  have  that,  will  have 

15  nothing.  We  are  wedded  to  opinion,  to  fancy,  to  prejudice; 
which  destroys  the  soundness  of  our  judgments  and  the  serenity 
and  buoyancy  of  our  feelings.  The  chain  of  habit  coils  itself 
round  the  heart,  like  a  serpent,  to  gnaw  and  stifle  it.  It  grows 
rigid  and  callous  ;  and  for  the  softness  and  elasticity  of  childhood, 

20  full  of  proud  flesh  and  obstinate  tumours.  The  violence  and  per- 
versity of  our  passions  comes  in  more  and  more  to  overlay  our 
natural  sensibility  and  well-grounded  affections ;  and  we  screw 
ourselves  up  to  aim  only  at  those  things  which  are  neither  desir- 
able nor  practicable.    Thus  life  passes  away  in  the  feverish  irrita- 

25  tion  of  pursuit  and  the  certainty  of  disappointment.  By  degrees, 
nothing  but  this  morbid  state  of  feeling  satisfies  us :  and  all 
common  pleasures  and  cheap  amusements  are  sacrificed  to  the 
demon  of  ambition,  avarice,  or  dissipation.  The  machine  is 
overwrought :    the  parching  heat  of  the  veins  dries  up  and 

30  withers  the  flowers  of  Love,  Hope,  and  Joy ;  and  any  pause, 
any  release  from  the  rack  of  ecstacy  on  which  we  are  stretched, 
seems  more  insupportable  than  the  pangs  which  we  endure.  We 
are  suspended  between  tormenting  desires,  and  the  horrors  of 
ennui.    The  impulse  of  the  will,  like  the  wheels  of  a  carriage 


ON  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE  153 

going  down  hill,  becomes  too  strong  for  the  driver,  reason,  and 
cannot  be  stopped  nor  kept  within  bounds.  Some  idea,  some 
fancy,  takes  possession  of  the  brain ;  and  however  ridiculous, 
however  distressing,  however  ruinous,  haunts  us  by  a  sort  of 
fascination  through  life.  5 

Not  only  is  this  principle  of  excessive  irritability  to  be  seen  at 
work  in  our  more  turbulent  passions  and  pursuits,  but  even  in 
the  formal  study  of  arts  and  sciences,  the  same  thing  takes  place, 
and  undermines  the  repose  and  happiness  of  life.  The  eagerness 
of  pursuit  overcomes  the  satisfaction  to  result  from  the  accom-  10 
plishment.  The  mind  is  overstrained  to  attain  its  purpose  ;  and 
when  it  is  attained,  the  ease  and  alacrity  necessary  to  enjoy  it 
are  gone.  The  irritation  of  action  does  not  cease  and  go  down 
with  the  occasion  for  it ;  but  we  are  first  uneasy  to  get  to  the 
end  of  our  work,  and  then  uneasy  for  want  of  something  to  do.  1 5 
The  ferment  of  the  brain  does  not  of  itself  subside  into  pleasure 
and  soft  repose.  Hence  the  disposition  to  strong  stimuli  observ- 
able in  persons  of  much  intellectual  exertion  to  allay  and  carr}' 
off  the  over-excitement.  The  improvisatori  poets  (it  is  recorded 
by  Spence  in  his  Anecdotes  of  Pope)  cannot  sleep  after  an  eve-  20 
ning's  continued  display  of  their  singular  and  difficult  art.  The 
rhymes  keep  running  in  their  head  in  spite  of  themselves,  and 
will  not  let  them  rest.  Mechanics  and  labouring  people  never 
know  what  to  do  with  themselves  on  a  Sunday,  though  they 
return  to  their  work  with  greater  spirit  for  the  relief,  and  look  25 
forward  to  it  with  pleasure  all  the  week.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
was  never  comfortable  out  of  his  painting-room,  and  died  of 
chagrin  and  regret,  because  he  could  not  paint  on  to  the  last 
moment  of  his  life.  He  used  to  say  that  he  could  go  on 
retouching  a  picture  for  ever,  as  long  as  it  stood  on  his  30 
easel ;  but  as  soon  as  it  was  once  fairly  out  of  the  house, 
he  never  wished  to  see  it  again.  An  ingenious  artist  of  our 
own  time  has  been  heard  to  declare,  that  if  ever  the  Devil 
got  him  into  his  clutches,  he  would  set  him  to  copy  his  own 


154  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

pictures.  Thus  the  secure,  self-complacent  retrospect  to  what 
is  done  is  nothing,  while  the  anxious,  uneasy  looking  forward 
to  what  is  to  come  is  every  thing.  We  are  afraid  to  dwell  upon 
the  past,  lest  it  should  retard  our  future  progress ;  the  indul- 
gence of  ease  is  fatal  to  excellence ;  and  to  succeed  in  life, 
we  lose  the  ends  of  being ! 


ON  FAMILIAR  STYLE 

It  is  not  easy  to  write  a  familiar  style.  Many  people  mistake 
a  familiar  for  a  vulgar  style,  and  suppose  that  to  write  without 
affectation  is  to  write  at  random.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  noth- 
ing that  requires  more  precision,  and,  if  I  may  so  say,  purity  of 
expression,  than  the  style  I  am  speaking  of.  It  utterly  rejects  5 
not  only  all  unmeaning  pomp,  but  all  low,  cant  phrases,  and 
loose,  unconnected,  slipshod  allusions.  It  is  not  to  take  the  first 
word  that  offers,  but  the  best  word  in  common  use ;  it  is  not  to 
throw  words  together  in  any  combinations  we  please,  but  to 
follow  and  avail  ourselves  of  the  true  idiom  of  the  language.  10 
To  write  a  genuine  familiar  or  truly  English  style,  is  to  write  as 
any  one  would  speak  in  common  conversation,  who  had  a  thor- 
ough command  and  choice  of  words,  or  who  could  discourse  with 
ease,  force,  and  perspicuity,  setting  aside  all  pedantic  and  orator- 
ical flourishes.  Or  to  give  another  illustration,  to  write  naturally  15 
is  the  same  thing  in  regard  to  common  conversation,  as  to  read 
naturally  is  in  regard  to  common  speech.  It  does  not  follow  that 
it  is  an  easy  thing  to  give  the  true  accent  and  inflection  to  the 
words  you  utter,  because  you  do  not  attempt  to  rise  above  the 
level  of  ordinary  life  and  colloquial  speaking.  You  do  not  assume  20 
indeed  the  solemnity  of  the  pulpit,  or  the  tone  of  stage-declama- 
tion :  neither  are  you  at  liberty  to  gabble  on  at  a  venture,  with- 
out emphasis  or  discretion,  or  to  resort  to  vulgar  dialect  or 
clownish  pronunciation.  You  must  steer  a  middle  course.  You 
are  tied  down  to  a  given  and  appropriate  articulation,  which  is  25 
determined  by  the  habitual  associations  between  sense  and  sound, 
and  which  you  can  only  hit  by  entering  into  the  author's  mean- 
ing, as  you  must  find  the  proper  words  and  style  to  express 

15s 


156  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

yourself  by  fixing  your  thoughts  on  the  subject  you  have  to  write 
about.  Any  one  may  mouth  out  a  passage  with  a  theatrical 
cadence,  or  get  upon  stilts  to  tell  his  thoughts  :  but  to  write  or 
speak  with  propriety  and  simplicity  is  a  more  difficult  task.  Thus 
S  it  is  easy  to  affect  a  pompous  style,  to  use  a  word  twice  as  big 
as  the  thing  you  want  to  express  :  it  is  not  so  easy  to  pitch  upon 
the  very  word  that  exactly  fits  it.  Out  of  eight  or  ten  words 
equally  common,  equally  intelligible,  with  nearly  equal  preten- 
sions, it  is  a  matter  of  some  nicety  and  discrimination  to  pick 

10  out  the  very  one,  the  preferableness  of  which  is  scarcely  percep- 
tible, but  decisive.  The  reason  why  I  object  to  Dr.  Johnson's 
style  is,  that  there  is  no  discrimination,  no  selection,  no  variety 
in  it.  He  uses  none  but  "  tall,  opaque  words,"  taken  from  the 
"  first  row  of  the  rubric :  "  —  words  with  the  greatest  number  of 

15  syllables,  or  Latin  phrases  with  merely  English  terminations.  If 
a  fine  style  depended  on  this  sort  of  arbitrary  pretension,  it  would 
be  fair  to  judge  of  an  author's  elegance  by  the  measurement  of 
his  words,  and  the  substitution  of  foreign  circumlocutions  (with 
no  precise  associations)  for  the  mother-tongue.^    How  simple  is 

20  it  to  be  dignified  without  ease,  to  be  pompous  without  meaning ! 
Surely,  it  is  but  a  mechanical  rule  for  avoiding  what  is  low  to  be 
always  pedantic  and  affected.  It  is  clear  you  cannot  use  a  vulgar 
English  word,  if  you  never  use  a  common  English  word  at  all. 
A  fine  tact  is  shewn  in  adhering  to  those  which  are  perfectly 

25  common,  and  yet  never  falling  into  any  expressions  which  are 
debased  by  disgusting  circumstances,  or  which  owe  their  sig- 
nification and  point  to  technical  or  professional  allusions.  A 
truly  natural  or  familiar  style  can  never  be  quaint  or  vulgar,  for 
this  reason,  that  it  is  of  universal  force  and  applicability,  and  that 

30  quaintness  and  vulgarity  arise  out  of  the  immediate  connection 
of  certain  words  with  coarse  and  disagreeable,  or  with  confined 

1  I  have  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  an  author,  who  makes  it  a  rule  never  to  admit 
a  monosyllable  into  his  vapid  verse.  Vet  the  charm  and  sweetness  of  Marlow's 
lines  depended  often  on  their  being  made  up  almost  entirely  of  monosyllables. 


ON   FAMILIAR  STYLE  157 

ideas.  The  last  form  what  we  understand  by  cant  or  slang 
phrases.  —  To  give  an  example  of  what  is  not  very  clear  in  the 
general  statement.  I  should  say  that  the  phrase  To  cut  with  a 
knife,  or  To  cut  a  piece  of  wood,  is  perfectly  free  from  vulgarity, 
because  it  is  perfectly  common :  but  to  cut  an  acquaintance  is  5 
not  quite  unexceptionable,  because  it  is  not  perfectly  common 
or  intelligible,  and  has  hardly  yet  escaped  out  of  the  limits  of 
slang  phraseology.  I  should  hardly  therefore  use  the  word  in 
this  sense  without  putting  it  in  italics  as  a  license  of  expression, 
to  be  received  cum  gnino  salts.  All  provincial  or  bye-phrases  10 
come  under  the  same  mark  of  reprobation  —  all  such  as  the 
writer  transfers  to  the  page  from  his  fire-side  or  a  particular 
coterie,  or  that  he  invents  for  his  own  sole  use  and  convenience. 
I  conceive  that  words  are  like  money,  not  the  worse  for  being 
common,  but  that  it  is  the  stamp  of  custom  alone  that  gives  them  1 5 
circulation  or  value.  I  am  fastidious  in  this  respect,  and  would 
almost  as  soon  coin  the  currency  of  the  realm  as  counterfeit  the 
King's  English.  I  never  invented  or  gave  a  new  and  unauthorised 
meaning  to  any  word  but  one  single  one  (the  term  impersonal 
applied  to  feelings)  and  that  was  in  an  abstruse  metaphysical  20 
discussion  to  express  a  very  difficult  distinction.  I  have  been 
(I  know)  loudly  accused  of  revelling  in  vulgarisms  and  broken 
English.  I  cannot  speak  to  that  point :  but  so  far  I  plead  guilty 
to  the  determined  use  of  acknowledged  idioms  and  common 
elliptical  expressions.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  critics  in  question  25 
know  the  one  from  the  other,  that  is,  can  distinguish  any  medium 
between  formal  pedantry  and  the  most  barbarous  solecism.  As 
an  author,  I  endeavour  to  employ  plain  words  and  popular  modes 
of  construction,  as  were  I  a  chapman  and  dealer,  I  should  com- 
mon weights  and  measures.  30 

The  proper  force  of  words  lies  not  in  the  words  themselves, 
but  in  their  application.  A  word  may  be  a  fine-sounding  word, 
of  an  unusual  length,  and  very  imposing  from  its  learning  and 
novelty,  and  yet  in  the  connection  in  which  it  is  introduced, 


158  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

may  be  quite  pointless  and  irrelevant.  It  is  not  pomp  or  pre- 
tension, but  the  adaptation  of  the  expression  to  the  idea  that 
clenches  a  writer's  meaning :  —  as  it  is  not  the  size  or  glossiness 
of  the  materials,  but  their  being  fitted  each  to  its  place,  that  gives 
5  strength  to  the  arch ;  or  as  the  pegs  and  nails  are  as  necessary 
to  the  support  of  the  building  as  the  larger  timbers,  and  more 
so  than  the  mere  shewy,  unsubstantial  ornaments.  I  hate  any 
thing  that  occupies  more  space  than  it  is  worth.  I  hate  to  see 
a  load  of  band-boxes  go  along  the  street,  and  I  hate  to  see  a 

10  parcel  of  big  words  without  any  thing  in  them.  A  person  who 
does  not  deliberately  dispose  of  all  his  thoughts  alike  in  cum- 
brous draperies  and  flimsy  disguises,  may  strike  out  twenty 
varieties  of  familiar  every-day  language,  each  coming  some- 
what nearer  to  the  feeling  he  wants  to  convey,  and  at  last  not 

15  hit  upon  that  particular  and  only  one,  which  may  be  said  to 
be  identical  with  the  exact  impression  in  his  mind.  This  would 
seem  to  shew  that  Mr.  Cobbett  is  hardly  right  in  saying  that 
the  first  word  that  occurs  is  always  the  best.  It  may  be  a  very 
good  one ;  and  yet  a  better  may  present  itself  on  reflection  or 

20  from  time  to  time.  It  should  be  suggested  naturally,  however, 
and  spontaneously,  from  a  fresh  and  lively  conception  of  the 
subject.  We  seldom  succeed  by  trying  at  improvement,  or  by 
merely  substituting  one  word  for  another  that  we  are  not  satis- 
fied with,  as  we  cannot  recollect  the  name  of  a  place  or  person 

25  by  merely  plaguing  ourselves  about  it.  We  wander  farther  from 
the  point  by  persisting  in  a  wrong  scent ;  but  it  starts  up  acci- 
dentally in  the  memory  when  we  least  expected  it,  by  touching 
some  link  in  the  chain  of  previous  association. 

There  are  those  who  hoard  up  and  make  a  cautious  display 

30  of  nothing  but  rich  and  rare  phraseology ;  —  ancient  medals, 
obscure  coins,  and  Spanish  pieces  of  eight.  They  are  very 
curious  to  inspect ;  but  I  myself  would  neither  offer  nor  take 
them  in  the  course  of  exchange.  A  sprinkling  of  archaisms  is 
not  amiss;  but  a  tissue  of  obsolete  expressions  is  more  Ht/or 


ON  FAMILIAR  STYLE  I  59 

keep  than  wear,    i  do  not  say  I  would  not  use  any  phrase  that 
had  been  brought  into  fashion  before  the  middle  or  the  end  of 
the  last  century ;  but  I  should  be  shy  of  using  any  that  had  not 
been  employed  by  any  approved  author  during  the  whole  of 
that  time.    Words,  like  clothes,  get  old-fashioned,  or  mean  and  5 
ridiculous,  when  they  have  been  for  some  time  laid  aside.    Mr. 
Lamb  is  the  only  imitator  of  old  English  style  I  can  read  with 
pleasure ;  and  he  is  so  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  his 
authors,  that  the  idea  of  imitation  is  almost  done  away.    There 
is  an  inward  unction,  a  marrowy  vein  both  in  the  thought  and  10 
feeling,  an  intuition,  deep  and  lively,  of  his  subject,  that  carries 
off  any  quaintness  or  awkwardness  arising  from  an  antiquated 
style  and  dress.     The  matter  is  completely  his  own,  though 
the  manner  is  assumed.    Perhaps  his  ideas  are  altogether  so 
marked  and  individual,  as  to  require  their  point  and  pungency  15 
to  be  neutralised  by  the  affectation  of  a  singular  but  traditional 
form  of  conveyance.    Tricked  out  in  the  prevailing  costume, 
they  would  probably  seem  more  startling  and  out  of  the  way. 
T\\Q  old  English  authors.  Burton,  Fuller,  Coryate,  Sir  Thomas 
Brown,  are  a  kind  of  mediators  between  us   and  the  more  20 
eccentric  and  whimsical  modem,  reconciling  us  to  his  peculiari- 
ties.   I  do  not  however  know  how  far  this  is  the  case  or  not, 
till  he  condescends  to  write  like  one  of  us.    I  must  confess  that 
what  I  like  best  of  his  papers  under  the  signature  of  Elia  (still 
I  do  not  presume,  amidst  such  excellence,  to  decide  what  is  25 
most  excellent)   is  the  account   of  Mrs.  Battle's   Opinions  on 
Whist,  which  is  also  the  most  free  from  obsolete  allusions  and 
turns  of  expression  — 

"A  well  of  native  English  undefiled." 

To  those  acquainted  with  his  admired  prototypes,  these  Essays  30 
of  the  ingenious  and  highly  gifted  author  have  the  same  sort  of 
charm  and  relish,  that  Erasmus's  Colloquies  or  a  fine  piece  of 
modern  Latin  have  to  the  classical  scholar.    Certainly,  I  do  not 


l6o  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

know  any  borrowed  pencil  that  has  more  power  or  felicity  of 
execution  than  the  one  of  which  I  have  here  been  speaking. 

It  is  as  easy  to  write  a  gaudy  style  without  ideas,  as  it  is  to 
spread  a  pallet  of  shewy  colours,  or  to  smear  in  a  flaunting 
5  transparency.  "What  do  you  read.?"  —  "Words,  words,  words." 
— "  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  —  ''Nothing,''  it  might  be  answered. 
The  fiorid  style  is  the  reverse  of  the  familiar.  The  last  is  em- 
ployed as  an  unvarnished  medium  to  convey  ideas ;  the  first  is 
resorted  to  as  a  spangled  veil  to  conceal  the  want  of  them. 

lo  When  there  is  nothing  to  be  set  down  but  words,  it  costs  litde 
to  have  them  fine.  Look  through  the  dictionary,  and  cull  out 
a  florilegium,  rival  the  tidippoinania.  Rouge  high  enough,  and 
never  mind  the  natural  complexion.  The  vulgar,  who  are  not 
in  the  secret,  will  admire  the  look  of  preternatural  health  and 

15  vigour;  and  the  fashionable,  who  regard  only  appearances,  will 
be  delighted  with  the  imposition.  Keep  to  your  sounding  gen- 
eralities, your  tinkling  phrases,  and  all  will  be  well.  Swell  out 
an  unmeaning  truism  to  a  perfect  tympany  of  style.  A  thought, 
a  distinction  is  the  rock  on  which  all  this  brittle  cargo  of  verbi- 

20  age  splits  at  once.  Such  writers  have  merely  verbal  imaginations, 
that  retain  nothing  but  words.  Or  their  puny  thoughts  have 
dragon-wings,  all  green  and  gold.  They  soar  far  above  the 
vulgar  failing  of  the  Sermo  himii  ohrepcns  —  their  most  ordinary 
speech  is  never  short  of  an  hyperbole,  splendid,  imposing,  vague, 

25  incomprehensible,  magniloquent,  a  cento  of  sounding  common- 
places. If  some  of  us,  whose  "  ambition  is  more  lowly."  pry  a 
little  too  narrowly  into  nooks  and  corners  to  pick  up  a  number 
of  "  unconsidered  trifles,"  they  never  once  direct  their  eyes  or 
lift  their  hands  to  seize  on  any  l)ut  the  most  gorgeous,  tarnished, 

30  thread-bare  patch-work  set  of  phrases,  the  left-off  finery  of  poetic 
extravagance,  transmitted  down  through  successive  generations 
of  barren  pretenders.  If  they  criticise  actors  and  actresses,  a 
huddled  phantasmagoria  of  feathers,  spangles,  floods  of  light, 
and  oceans  of  sound  fioat  before  their  morbid  sense,  which  they 


ON   FAMILIAR  STYLE  l6l 

paint  in  the  style  of  Ancient  Pistol.  Not  a  glimpse  can  you  get 
of  the  merits  or  defects  of  the  performers  :  they  are  hidden  in  a 
profusion  of  barbarous  epithets  and  wilful  rhodomontade.  Our 
hypercritics  are  not  thinking  of  these  little  fantoccini  beings  — 

"  That  strut  and  fret  their  hour  upon  the  stage  "  —  5 

but  of  tall  phantoms  of  words,  abstractions,  genera  and  species, 
sweeping  clauses,  periods  that  unite  the  Poles,  forced  alliter- 
ations, astounding  antitheses  — 

"And  on  their  pens  Fustian  sits  plumed." 

If  they  describe  kings  and  queens,  it  is  an  Eastern  pageant.  lo 
The  Coronation  at  either  House  is  nothing  to  it.    We  get  at 
four  repeated  images  —  a  curtain,  a  throne,  a  sceptre,  and  a 
foot-stool.    These  are  with  them  the  wardrobe  of  a  lofty  imagi- 
nation ;  and  they  turn  their  servile  strains  to  servile  uses.    Do 
we  read  a  description  of  pictures?     It  is  not  a  reflection  of  15 
tones  and  hues  which  "  nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand 
laid  on,"  but  piles  of  precious  stones,  rubies,  pearls,  emeralds, 
Golconda's  mines,  and  all  the  blazonry  of  art.    Such  persons 
are  in  fact  besotted  with  words,  and  their  brains  are  turned 
with  the  glittering,  but  empty  and  sterile  phantoms  of  things.  20 
Personifications,  capital  letters,  seas  of  sunbeams,  visions  of 
glory,  shining  inscriptions,  the  figures  of  a  transparency,  Bri- 
tannia with  her  shield,  or  Hope  leaning  on  an  anchor,  make  up 
their  stock  in  trade.    They  may  be  considered  as  hieroglyphical 
writers.    Images  stand  out  in  their  minds  isolated  and  important  25 
merely  in  themselves,  without  any  ground-work  of  feeling  — 
there  is  no  context  in  their  imaginations.    Words  affect  them 
in  the  same  way,  by  the  mere  sound,  that  is,  by  their  possible, 
not  by  their  actual  application  to  the  subject  in  hand.   They  are 
fascinated  by  first  appearances,  and  have  no  sense  of  conse-  30 
quences.    Nothing  more  is  meant  by  them  than  meets  the  ear : 
thev  understand  or  feel  nothing  more  than  meets  their  eve.   The 
web  and  texture  of  the  universe,  and  of  the  heart  of  man,  is  a 


l62  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

mystery  to  them :  they  have  no  faculty  that  strikes  a  chord  in 
unison  with  it.  They  cannot  get  beyond  the  daubings  of  fancy, 
the  varnish  of  sentiment.  Objects  are  not  linked  to  feelings, 
words  to  things,  but  images  revolve  in  splendid  mockery,  words 

5  represent  themselves  in  their  strange  rhapsodies.  The  cate- 
gories of  such  a  mind  are  pride  and  ignorance  —  pride  in  out- 
side show,  to  which  they  sacrifice  every  thing,  and  ignorance  of 
the  true  worth  and  hidden  structure  both  of  words  and  things. 
With  a  sovereign  contempt  for  what  is  familiar  and  natural, 

lo  they  are  the  slaves  of  vulgar  affectation  —  of  a  routine  of  high- 
flown  phrases.  Scorning  to  imitate  realities,  they  are  unable  to 
invent  any  thing,  to  strike  out  one  original  idea.  They  are 
not  copyists  of  nature,  it  is  true :  but  they  are  the  poorest 
of  all  plagiarists,  the  plagiarists  of  words.    All  is  far-fetched, 

1 5  dear-bought,  artificial,  oriental  in  subject  and  allusion  :  all  is 
mechanical,  conventional,  vapid,  formal,  pedantic  in  style  and 
execution.  They  startle  and  confound  the  understanding  of  the 
reader,  by  the  remoteness  and  obscurity  of  their  illustrations : 
they  soothe  the  ear  by  the  monotony  of  the  same  everlasting 

2o  round  of  circuitous  metaphors.  They  are  the  mock-school  in 
poetry  and  prose.  They  flounder  about  between  fustian  in  ex- 
pression, and  bathos  in  sentiment.  They  tantalise  the  fancy, 
but  never  reach  the  head  nor  touch  the  heart.  Their  Temple 
of  Fame  is  like  a  shadowy  structure  raised  by  Dulness  to  Van- 

25  ity,  or  like  Cowper's  description  of  the  Empress  of  Russia's 
palace  of  ice,  as  "  worthless  as  in  shew  'twas  glittering"  — 

"  It  smiled,  and  it  was  cold !  " 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY 

One  of  the  pleasantest  things  in  the  world  is  going  a  jour- 
ney ;  but  I  like  to  go  by  myself.  I  can  enjoy  society  in  a  room ; 
but  out  of  doors,  nature  is  company  enough  for  me.  I  am 
then  never  less  alone  than  when  alone. 

"  The  fields  his  study,  nature  was  his  book."  5 

I  cannot  see  the  wit  of  walking  and  talking  at  the  same  time. 
When  I  am  in  the  country,  I  wish  to  vegetate  like  the  country. 
I  am  not  for  criticising  hedge-rows  and  black  cattle.  I  go  out 
of  town  in  order  to  forget  the  town  and  all  that  is  in  it.  There 
are  those  who  for  this  purpose  go  to  watering-places,  and  carry  10 
the  metropolis  with  them.  I  like  more  elbow-room,  and  fewer 
incumbrances.  I  like  solitude,  when  I  give  myself  up  to  it,  for 
the  sake  of  solitude ;  nor  do  I  ask  for 

" a  friend  in  my  retreat. 

Whom  I  may  whisper,  solitude  is  sweet."  15 

The  soul  of  a  journey  is  libert}-,  perfect  liberty,  to  think,  feel,  do, 
just  as  one  pleases.  We  go  a  journey  chiefly  to  be  free  of  all  im- 
pediments and  of  all  inconveniences  ;  to  leave  ourselves  behind, 
much  more  to  get  rid  of  others.  It  is  because  I  want  a  little 
breathing-space  to  muse  on  indifferent  matters,  where  Contem-  20 

plation 

"  May  plume  her  feathers  and  let  grow  her  wings, 

That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 

Were  all  too  ruffled,  and  sometimes  impair'd," 

that  I  absent  myself  from  the  town  for  awhile,  without  feeling  25 
at  a  loss  the  moment  I  am  left  by  myself.    Instead  of  a  friend 
in  a  post-chaise  or  in  a  Tilbury,  to  exchange  good  things  with, 
and  vary  the  same  stale  topics  over  again,  for  once  let  me  have 
a  truce  with  impertinence.   Give  me  the  clear  blue  sky  over 

161 


l64  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

my  head,  and  the  green  turf  beneath  my  feet,  a  winding  road 
before  me,  and  a  three  hours'  march  to  dinner  —  and  then  to 
thinking !  It  is  hard  if  I  cannot  start  some  game  on  these  lone 
heaths.    I  laugh,  I  run,  I  leap,  I  sing  for  joy.    From  the  point 

5  of  yonder  rolling  cloud,  I  plunge  into  my  past  being,  and  revel 
there,  as  the  sun-burnt  Indian  plunges  headlong  into  the  wave 
that  wafts  him  to  his  native  shore.  Then  long-forgotten  things, 
like  "  sunken  wrack  and  sumless  treasuries,"  burst  upon  my 
eager  sight,  and  I  begin  to  feel,  think,  and  be  myself  again. 

lo  Instead  of  an  awkward  silence,  broken  by  attempts  at  wit  or 
dull  common-places,  mine  is  that  undisturbed  silence  of  the 
heart  which  alone  is  perfect  eloquence.  No  one  likes  puns, 
alliterations,  antitheses,  argument,  and  analysis  better  than  I 
do ;  but  I  sometimes  had  rather  be  without  them.    "  Leave, 

15  oh,  leave  me  to  my  repose !  "  I  have  just  now  other  business 
in  hand,  which  would  seem  idle  to  you,  but  is  with  me  "  very 
stuff  of  the  conscience."  Is  not  this  wild  rose  sweet  without  a 
comment  ?  Does  not  this  daisy  leap  to  my  heart  set  in  its  coat 
of  emerald  ?   Yet  if  I  were  to  explain  to  you  the  circumstance 

20  that  has  so  endeared  it  to  me,  you  would  only  smile.  Had  I 
not  better  then  keep  it  to  myself,  and  let  it  serve  me  to  brood 
over,  from  here  to  yonder  craggy  point,  and  from  thence 
onward  to  the  far-distant  horizon  ?  I  should  be  but  bad  com- 
pany all  that  way,   and  therefore  prefer  being  alone.    I  have 

25  heard  it  said  that  you  may,  when  the  moody  fit  comes  on,  walk 
or  ride  on  by  yourself,  and  indulge  your  reveries.  But  this 
looks  like  a  breach  of  manners,  a  neglect  of  others,  and  you 
are  thinking  all  the  time  that  you  ought  to  rejoin  your  party. 
"  Out  upon  such  half-faced  fellowship,"   say   I.    I   like  to  be 

30  either  endrely  to  myself,  or  entirely  at  the  disposal  of  others ; 
to  talk  or  be  silent,  to  walk  or  sit  still,  to  be  sociable  or  solitary. 
I  was  pleased  with  an  observation  of  Mr.  Cobbett's,  that  "  he 
thought  it  a  bad  French  custom  to  drink  our  wine  with  our 
meals,  and  that  an  Englishman  ought  to  do  only  one  thing  at  a 


ON   GOING  A  JOURNEY  165 

time."  So  I  cannot  talk  and  think,  or  indulge  in  melancholy 
musing  and  lively  conversation  by  fits  and  starts.  "  Let  me 
have  a  companion  of  my  way,"  says  Sterne,  "  were  it  but  to 
remark  how  the  shadows  lengthen  as  the  sun  declines."  It  is 
beautifully  said  :  but  in  my  opinion,  this  continual  comparing  of  5 
notes  interferes  with  the  involuntary  impression  of  things  upon 
the  mind,  and  hurts  the  sentiment.  If  you  only  hint  what  you 
feel  in  a  kind  of  dumb  show,  it  is  insipid  :  if  you  have  to  explain 
it,  it  is  making  a  toil  of  a  pleasure.  You  cannot  read  the  book 
of  nature,  without  being  perpetually  put  to  the  trouble  of  trans-  10 
lating  it  for  the  benefit  of  others.  I  am  for  the  synthetical 
method  on  a  journey,  in  preference  to  the  analytical.  I  am 
content  to  lay  in  a  stock  of  ideas  then,  and  to  examine  and 
anatomise  them  afterwards.  I  want  to  see  my  vague  notions 
float  like  the  down  of  the  thistle  before  the  breeze,  and  not  to  15 
have  them  entangled  in  the  briars  and  thorns  of  controversy. 
For  once,  I  like  to  have  it  all  my  own  way  ;  and  this  is  im- 
possible unless  you  are  alone,  or  in  such  company  as  I  do  not 
covet.  I  have  no  objection  to  argue  a  point  with  any  one  for 
twenty  miles  of  measured  road,  but  not  for  pleasure.  If  you  20 
remark  the  scent  of  a  bean-field  crossing  the  road,  perhaps 
your  fellow-traveller  has  no  smell.  If  you  point  to  a  distant 
object,  perhaps  he  is  short-sighted,  and  has  to  take  out  his 
glass  to  look  at  it.  There  is  a  feeling  in  the  air,  a  tone  in  the 
colour  of  a  cloud  which  hits  your  fancy,  but  the  effect  of  which  25 
you  are  unable  to  account  for.  There  is  then  no  sympath)-,  but 
an  uneasy  craving  after  it,  and  a  dissatisfaction  which  pursues 
you  on  the  way,  and  in  the  end  probably  produces  ill  humour. 
Now  I  never  quarrel  with  myself,  and  take  all  my  own  con- 
clusions for  granted  till  I  find  it  necessary  to  defend  them  30 
against  objections.  It  is  not  merely  that  you  may  not  be  of 
accord  on  the  objects  and  circumstances  that  present  them- 
selves before  you  —  these  may  recal  a  number  of  objects,  and 
lead  to  associations   too  delicate  and  refined   to  be   possibly 


l66  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

communicated  to  others.  Yet  these  I  love  to  cherish,  and 
sometimes  still  fondly  clutch  them,  when  I  can  escape  from  the 
throng  to  do  so.  To  give  way  to  our  feelings  before  company, 
seems  extravagance  or  affectation ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
5  have  to  unravel  this  mystery  of  our  being  at  every  turn,  and  to 
make  others  take  an  equal  interest  in  it  (otherwise  the  end  is 
not  answered)  is  a  task  to  which  few  are  competent.  We  must 
"give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue."  My  old  friend 
C ,  however,  could  do  both.    He  could  go  on  in  the  most 

lo  delightful  explanatory  way  over  hill  and  dale,  a  summer's  day, 
and  convert  a  landscape  into  a  didactic  poem  or  a  Pindaric  ode. 
"  He  talked  far  above  singing."  If  I  could  so  clothe  my  ideas 
in  sounding  and  flowing  words,  I  might  perhaps  wish  to  have 
some  one  with  me  to  admire  the  swelling  theme ;  or  I  could  be 

1 5  more  content,  were  it  possible  for  me  still  to  hear  his  echoing 
voice  in  the  woods  of  All-Foxden.  They  had  "  that  fine  mad- 
ness in  them  which  our  first  poets  had  ;  "  and  if  they  could  have 
been  caught  by  some  rare  instrument,  would  have  breathed 
such  strains  as  the  following. 

20  " Here  be  woods  as  green 

As  any,  air  likewise  as  fresh  and  sweet 
As  when  smooth  Zephyrus  plays  on  the  fleet 
Face  of  the  curled  streams,  with  flow'rs  as  many 
As  the  young  spring  gives,  and  as  choice  as  any; 

25  Here  be  all  new  delights,  cool  streams  and  wells, 

Arbours  o'ergrown  with  woodbines,  caves  and  dells ; 
Choose  where  thou  wilt,  whilst  I  sit  by  and  sing. 
Or  gather  rushes,  to  make  many  a  ring 
For  thy  long  fingers ;  tell  thee  tales  of  love  ; 

30  How  the  pale  Phoebe,  hunting  in  a  grove, 

First  saw  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose  eyes 
She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies ; 
How  she  convey'd  him  softly  in  a  sleep. 
His  temples  bound  with  poppy,  to  the  steep 

25  Head  of  old  Latmos,  where  she  stoops  each  night, 

Gilding  the  mountain  with  her  brother's  light. 
To  kiss  her  sweetest."  — "Faithkui,  Shki-herdess." 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY  167 

Had  I  words  and  images  at  command  like  these,  I  would  at- 
tempt to  wake  the  thoughts  that  lie  slumbering  on  golden 
ridges  in  the  evening  clouds :  but  at  the  sight  of  nature  my 
fancy,  poor  as  it  is,  droops  and  closes  up  its  leaves,  like  flowers 
at  sunset.  I  can  make  nothing  out  on  the  spot :  —  I  must  have  5 
time  to  collect  myself.  — 

In   general,   a  good    thing   spoils   out-of-door   prospects :    it 

should  be  reserved  for  Table-talk.    L is  for  this  reason, 

I  take  it,  the  worst  company  in  the  world  out  of  doors  ;  because 
he  is  the  best  within.    I  grant,  there  is  one  subject  on  which  it  10 
is  pleasant  to  talk  on  a  journey ;  and  that  is,  what  one  shall 
have  for  supper  when  we  get  to  our  inn  at  night.    The  open 
air  improves  this  sort  of  conversation  or  friendly  altercation, 
by  setting  a  keener  edge  on  appetite.    Every  mile  of  the  road 
heightens  the  flavour  of  the  viands  we  expect  at  the  end  of  it.  15 
How  fine  it  is  to  enter  some  old  town,  walled  and  turreted  just 
at  approach  of  night-fall,  or  to  come  to  some  straggling  village, 
with  the  lights  streaming  through  the  surrounding  gloom ;  and 
then  after  inquiring  for  the  best  entertainment  that  the  place 
affords,  to  "  take  one's  ease  at  one's  inn  !  "    These  eventful  20 
moments  in  our  lives'  history  are  too  precious,  too  full  of  solid, 
heart-felt  happiness  to  be  frittered  and  dribbled  away  in  im- 
perfect sympathy.    I  would  have  them  all  to  myself,  and  drain 
them  to  the  last  drop :  they  will  do  to  talk  of  or  to  write  about 
afterwards.    What  a  delicate  speculation  it  is,  after  drinking  25 
whole  goblets  of  tea, 

"  The  cups  that  cheer,  but  not  inebriate," 

and  letting  the  fumes  ascend  into  the  brain,  to  sit  considering 
what  we  shall  have  for  supper  —  eggs  and  a  rasher,  a  rab- 
bit smothered  in  onions,  or  an  excellent  veal-cutlet !  Sancho  30 
in  such  a  situation  once  fixed  on  cow-heel ;  and  his  choice, 
though  he  could  not  help  it,  is  not  to  be  disparaged.  Then,  in 
the  intervals  of  pictured  scenery  and  Shandean  contemplation. 


l68  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

to  catch  the  preparation  and  the  stir  in  the  kitchen — ■  Frocul, 
O  procul  este  prof  anil  These  hours  are  sacred  to  silence  and  to 
musing,  to  be  treasured  up  in  the  memory,  and  to  feed  the 
source  of  smiling  thoughts  hereafter.  I  would  not  waste  them 
5  in  idle  talk ;  or  if  I  must  have  the  integrity  of  fancy  broken 
in  upon,  I  would  rather  it  were  by  a  stranger  than  a  friend. 
A  stranger  takes  his  hue  and  character  from  the  time  and 
place ;  he  is  a  part  of  the  furniture  and  costume  of  an  inn.  If 
he  is  a  Quaker,  or  from  the  West  Riding  of  Yorkshire,  so  much 

lo  the  better.  I  do  not  even  try  to  sympathise  with  him,  and 
he  breaks  no  squares.  I  associate  nothing  with  my  travelling 
companion  but  present  objects  and  passing  events.  In  his  igno- 
rance of  me  and  my  affairs,  I  in  a  manner  forget  myself.  But 
a  friend  reminds  one  of  other  things,  rips  up  old  grievances, 

15  and  destroys  the  abstraction  of  the  scene.  He  comes  in  un- 
graciously between  us  and  our  imaginary  character.  Something 
is  dropped  in  the  course  of  conversation  that  gives  a  hint  of 
your  profession  and  pursuits  ;  or  from  having  some  one  with  you 
that  knows  the  less  sublime  portions  of  your  history,  it  seems 

20  that  other  people  do.  You  are  no  longer  a  citizen  of  the  world : 
but  your  "  unhoused  free  condition  is  put  into  circumspection 
and  confine."  The  incognito  of  an  inn  is  one  of  its  striking 
privileges  —  "  lord  of  one's  self,  uncumber'd  with  a  name."  Oh  ! 
it  is  great  to   shake  off  the  trammels  of  the  world  and  of 

25  public  opinion  —  to  lose  our  importunate,  tormenting,  everlast- 
ing personal  identity  in  the  elements  of  nature,  and  become 
the  creature  of  the  moment,  clear  of  all  ties  —  to  hold  to  the 
universe  only  by  a  dish  of  sweet-breads,  and  to  owe  nothing 
but  the  score  of   the  evening  —  and  no  longer  seeking  for 

30  applause  and  meeting  with  contempt,  to  be  known  by  no  other 
title  than  the  Gentleman  in  the  parlour  /  One  may  take  one's 
choice  of  all  characters  in  this  romantic  state  of  uncertainty  as 
to  one's  real  pretensions,  and  become  indefinitely  respectable  and 
negatively  right-worshipful.    We  baffle  prejudice  and  disappoint 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY  169 

conjecture ;  and  from  being  so  to  others,  begin  to  be  objects 
of  curiosity  and  wonder  even  to  ourselves.  We  are  no  more 
those  hackneyed  common-places  that  we  appear  in  the  world : 
an  inn  restores  us  to  the  level  of  nature,  and  quits  scores  with 
society  !  I  have  certainly  spent  some  enviable  hours  at  inns  —  5 
sometimes  when  I  have  been  left  entirely  to  myself,  and  have 
tried  to  solve  some  metaphysical  problem,  as  once  at  Witham- 
common,  where  I  found  out  the  proof  that  likeness  is  not  a  case 
of  the  association  of  ideas  —  at  other  times,  when  there  have 
been  pictures  in  the  room,  as  at  St.  Neot's,  (I  think  it  was),  10 
where  I  first  met  with  Gribelin's  engravings  of  the  Cartoons, 
into  which  I  entered  at  once,  and  at  a  little  inn  on  the  borders 
of  Wales,  where  there  happened  to  be  hanging  some  of  Westall's 
drawings,  which  I  compared  triumphantly  (for  a  theory  that 
I  had,  not  for  the  admired  artist)  with  the  figure  of  a  girl  who  1 5 
had  ferried  me  over  the  Severn,  standing  up  in  a  boat  between 
me  and  the  twilight  —  at  other  times  I  might  mention  luxuriating 
in  books,  with  a  peculiar  interest  in  this  way,  as  I  remember 
sitting  up  half  the  night  to  read  Paul  and  Virginia,  which 
I  picked  up  at  an  inn  at  Bridgewater,  after  being  drenched  20 
in  the  rain  all  day ;  and  at  the  same  place  I  got  through  two 
volumes  of  Madame  D'Arblay's  Camilla.  It  was  on  the  loth 
of  April,  1798,  that  I  sat  down  to  a  volume  of  the  New  Eloise, 
at  the  inn  at  Llangollen,  over  a  bottle  of  sherry  and  a  cold 
chicken.  The  letter  I  chose  was  that  in  which  St.  Preux  25 
describes  his  feelings  as  he  first  caught  a  glimpse  from  the 
heights  of  the  Jura  of  the  Pays  de  Vaud,  which  I  had  brought 
with  me  as  a  bo7i  boiiche  to  crown  the  evening  with.  It  was  my 
birth-day,  and  I  had  for  the  first  time  come  from  a  place  in  the 
neighbourhood  to  visit  this  delightful  spot.  The  road  to  Llan-  30 
gollen  turns  off  between  Chirk  and  Wrexham ;  and  on  passing 
a  certain  point,  you  come  all  at  once  upon  the  valley,  which 
opens  like  an  amphitheatre,  broad,  barren  hills  rising  in  majestic 
state  on  either  side,  with  "  green  upland  swells  that  echo  to  the 


lyo  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

bleat  of  flocks  "  below,  and  the  river  Dee  babbling  over  its  stony 
bed  in  the  midst  of  them.  The  valley  at  this  time  "  glittered 
green  with  sunny  showers,"  and  a  budding  ash-tree  dipped  its 
tender  branches  in  the  chiding  stream.  How  proud,  how  glad 
5  I  was  to  walk  along  the  high  road  that  overlooks  the  delicious 
prospect,  repeating  the  lines  which  I  have  just  quoted  from 
Mr.  Coleridge's  poems  !  But  besides  the  prospect  which  opened 
beneath  my  feet,  another  also  opened  to  my  inward  sight, 
a  heavenly  vision,  on  which  were  written,  in  letters  large  as 
10  Hope  could  make  them,  these  four  words,  Liberty,  Genius, 
Love,  Virtue  ;  which  have  since  faded  into  the  light  of  common 
day,  or  mock  my  idle  gaze. 

"  The  beautiful  is  vanished,  and  returns  not." 

Still  I  would  return  some  time  or  other  to  this  enchanted  spot ; 

15  but  I  would  return  to  it  alone.  What  other  self  could  I  find  to 
share  that  influx  of  thoughts,  of  regret,  and  delight,  the  frag- 
ments of  which  I  could  hardly  conjure  up  to  myself,  so  much 
have  they  been  broken  and  defaced !  I  could  stand  on  some 
tall  rock,  and  overlook  the  precipice  of  years  that  separates  me 

20  from  what  I  then  was.  I  was  at  that  time  going  shortly  to  visit 
the  poet  whom  I  have  above  named.  Where  is  he  now  ?  Not 
only  I  myself  have  changed ;  the  world,  which  was  then  new 
to  me,  has  become  old  and  incorrigible.  Yet  will  I  turn  to  thee 
in  thought,  O  sylvan  Dee,  in  joy,  in  youth  and  gladness  as  thou 

25  then  wert ;  and  thou  shalt  always  be  to  me  the  river  of  Paradise, 
where  I  will  drink  of  the  waters  of  life  freely ! 

There  is  hardly  anything  that  shows  the  short-sightedness  or 
capriciousness  of  the  imagination  more  than  travelling  does. 
With  change  of  place  we  change  our  ideas ;  nay,  our  opinions 

30  and  feelings.  We  can  by  an  effort  indeed  transport  ourselves 
to  old  and  long-forgotten  scenes,  and  then  the  picture  of  the 
mind  revives  again ;  but  we  forget  those  that  we  have  just  left. 
It  seems  that  we  can  think  but  of  one  place  at  a  time.    The 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY  171 

canvas  of  the  fancy  is  but  of  a  certain  extent,  and  if  we  paint 
one  set  of  objects  upon  it,  they  immediately  efface  every  other. 
We  cannot  enlarge  our  conceptions,  we  only  shift  our  point  of 
view.  The  landscape  bares  its  bosom  to  the  enraptured  eye,  we 
take  our  fill  of  it,  and  seem  as  if  we  could  form  no  other  image  5 
of  beauty  or  grandeur.  We  pass  on,  and  think  no  more  of  it : 
the  horizon  that  shuts  it  from  our  sight,  also  blots  it  from  our 
memory  like  a  dream.  In  travelling  through  a  wild  barren 
country,  I  can  form  no  idea  of  a  woody  and  cultivated  one.  It 
appears  to  me  that  all  the  world  must  be  barren,  like  what  I  10 
see  of  it.  In  the  country  we  forget  the  town,  and  in  town  we 
despise  the  country.  "  Beyond  Hyde  Park,"  says  Sir  Topling 
Flutter,  "  all  is  a  desert."  All  that  part  of  the  map  that  we  do 
not  see  before  us  is  a  blank.  The  world  in  our  conceit  of  it  is  not 
much  bigger  than  a  nutshell.  It  is  not  one  prospect  expanded  15 
into  another,  county  joined  to  county,  kingdom  to  kingdom,  land 
to  seas,  making  an  image  voluminous  and  vast ;  —  the  mind  can 
form  no  larger  idea  of  space  than  the  eye  can  take  in  at  a 
single  glance.  The  rest  is  a  name  written  in  a  map,  a  calcula- 
tion of  arithmetic.  For  instance,  what  is  the  true  signification  20 
of  that  immense  mass  of  territory  and  population,  known  by 
the  name  of  China  to  us  ?  An  inch  of  paste-board  on  a  wooden 
globe,  of  no  more  account  than  a  China  orange  I  Things  near 
us  are  seen  of  the  size  of  life :  things  at  a  distance  are  dimin- 
ished to  the  size  of  the  understanding.  We  measure  the  universe  25 
by  ourselves,  and  even  comprehend  the  texture  of  our  own 
being  only  piece-meal.  In  this  way,  however,  we  remember  an 
infinity  of  things  and  places.  The  mind  is  like  a  mechanical 
instrument  that  plays  a  great  variety  of  tunes,  but  it  must  play 
them  in  succession.  One  idea  recalls  another,  but  it  at  the  same  30 
time  excludes  all  others.  In  tr\'ing  to  renew  old  recollections, 
we  cannot  as  it  were  unfold  the  whole  web  of  our  existence; 
we  must  pick  out  the  single  threads.  So  in  coming  to  a  place 
where  we  have  formerly  lived  and  with  which  we  have  intimate 


1/2  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

associations,  every  one  must  have  found  that  the  feeling  grows 
more  vivid  'the  nearer  we  approach  the  spot,  from  the  mere 
anticipation  of  the  actual  impression :  we  remember  circum- 
stances, feelings,  persons,  faces,  names  that  we  had  not  thought 
S  of  for  years ;  but  for  the  time  all  the  rest  of  the  world  is  forgotten ! 
—  To  return  to  the  question  I  have  quitted  above. 

I  have  no  objection  to  go  to  see  ruins,  aqueducts,  pictures,  in 
company  with  a  friend  or  a  party,  but  rather  the  contrary,  for 
the  former  reason  reversed.    They  are  intelligible  matters,  and 

lo  will  bear  talking  about.  The  sentiment  here  is  not  tacit,  but 
communicable  and  overt.  Salisbury  Plain  is  barren  of  criticism, 
but  Stonehenge  will  bear  a  discussion  antiquarian,  picturesque, 
and  philosophical.  In  setting  out  on  a  party  of  pleasure,  the 
first  consideration  always  is  where  we  shall  go  to  :   in  taking 

15  a  solitary  ramble,  the  question  is  what  we  shall  meet  with  by 
the  way.  "  The  mind  is  its  own  place ;  "  nor  are  we  anxious  to 
arrive  at  the  end  of  our  journey.  I  can  myself  do  the  honours 
indifferently  well  to  works  of  art  and  curiosity.  I  once  took  a 
party  to  Oxford  with  no  mean  eclat  —  shewed  them  that  seat 

20  of  the  Muses  at  a  distance, 

"  With  glistering  spires  and  pinnacles  adorn'd  "  — 

descanted  on  the  learned  air  that  breathes  from  the  grassy 
quadrangles  and  stone  walls  of  halls  and  colleges  —  was  at 
home  in  the  Bodleian ;  and  at  Blenheim  quite  superseded  the 

25  powdered  Ciceroni  that  attended  us,  and  that  pointed  in  vain 
with  his  wand  to  common-place  beauties  in  matchless  pictures.  — 
As  another  exception  to  the  above  reasoning,  I  should  not  feel 
.confident  in  venturing  on  a  journey  in  a  foreign  country  without 
a  companion.    I  should  want  at  intervals  to  hear  the  sound  of 

30  my  own  language.  There  is  an  involuntary  antipathy  in  the 
mind  of  an  Englishman  to  foreign  manners  and  notions  that 
requires  the  assistance  of  social  sympathy  to  carry  it  off.  As 
the  distance  from  home  increases,  this  relief,  which  was  at  first 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY  173 

a  luxury,  becomes  a  passion  and  an  appetite.  A  person  would 
almost  feel  stifled  to  find  himself  in  the  deserts  of  Arabia  with- 
out friends  and  countrymen :  there  must  be  allowed  to  be 
something  in  the  view  of  Athens  or  old  Rome  that  claims  the 
utterance  of  speech";  and  I  own  that  the  Pyramids  are  too  5 
mighty  for  any  single  contemplation.  In  such  situations,  so 
opposite  to  all  one's  ordinary  train  of  ideas,  one  seems  a  species 
by  one's-self,  a  limb  torn  off  from  society,  unless  one  can  meet 
with  instant  fellowship  and  support.  —  Yet  I  did  not  feel  this 
want  or  craving  very  pressing  once,  when  I  first  set  my  foot  on  10 
the  laughing  shores  of  France.  Calais  was  peopled  with  novelty 
and  delight.  The  confused,  busy  murmur  of  the  place  was  like 
oil  and  wine  poured  into  my  ears ;  nor  did  the  mariners'  hymn, 
which  was  sung  from  the  top  of  an  old  crazy  vessel  in  the 
harbour,  as  the  sun  went  down,  send  an  alien  sound  into  my  15 
soul.  I  only  breathed  the  air  of  general  humanity.  I  walked 
over  "  the  vine-covered  hills  and  gay  regions  of  France,"  erect 
and  satisfied ;  for  the  image  of  man  was  not  cast  down  and 
chained  to  the  foot  of  arbitrary  thrones :  I  was  at  no  loss  for 
language,  for  that  of  all  the  great  schools  of  painting  was  open  20 
to  me.  The  whole  is  vanished  like  a  shade.  Pictures,  heroes, 
glory,  freedom,  all  are  fled :  nothing  remains  but  the  Bourbons 
and  the  French  people  !  —  There  is  undoubtedly  a  sensation  in 
travelling  into  foreign  parts  that  is  to  be  had  nowhere  else  :  but 
it  is  more  pleasing  at  the  time  than  lasting.  It  is  too  remote  25 
from  our  habitual  associations  to  be  a  common  topic  of  discourse 
or  reference,  and,  like  a  dream  or  another  state  of  existence, 
does  not  piece  into  our  daily  modes  of  life.  It  is  an  animated 
but  a  momentary  hallucination.  It  demands  an  effort  to  exchange 
our  actual  for  our  ideal  identity ;  and  to  feel  the  pulse  of  our  3° 
old  transports  revive  very  keenly,  we  must  "  jump "  all  our 
present  comforts  and  connexions.  Our  romantic  and  itinerant 
character  is  not  to  be  domesticated.  Dr.  Johnson  remarked  how 
little  foreign  travel  added  to  the  facilities  of  conversation  in 


1/4  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

those  who  had  been  abroad.  In  fact,  the  time  we  have  spent 
there  is  both  delightful  and  in  one  sense  instructive ;  but  it 
appears  to  be  cut  out  of  our  substantial,  downright  existence, 
and  never  to  join  kindly  on  to  it.  We  are  not  the  same,  but 
5  another,  and  perhaps  more  enviable  individual,  all  the  time  we 
are  out  of  our  own  country.  We  are  lost  to  ourselves,  as  well 
as  our  friends.    So  the  poet  somewhat  quaintly  sings, 

"  Out  of  my  country  and  myself  I  go." 

Those  who  wish  to  forget  painful  thoughts,  do  well  to  absent 
lo  themselves  for  a  while  from  the  ties  and  objects  that  recal 
them :  but  we  can  be  said  only  to  fulfil  our  destiny  in  the  place 
that  gave  us  birth.  I  should  on  this  account  like  well  enough 
to  spend  the  whole  of  my  life  in  travelling  abroad,  if  I  could 
any  where  borrow  another  life  to  spend  afterwards  at  home  !  — 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH   POETS 

My  father  was  a  Dissenting  Minister  at  W m  in  Shrop- 
shire;  and  in  the  year  1798  (the  figures  that  compose  that 
date  are  to  me  like  the  "dreaded  name  of  Demogorgon ") 
Mr.  Coleridge  came  to  Shrewsbury,  to  succeed  Mr.  Rowe  in 
the  spiritual  charge  of  a  Unitarian  congregation  there.  He  did  5 
not  come  till  late  on  the  Saturday  afternoon  before  he  was  to 
preach ;  and  Mr.  Rowe,  who  himself  went  down  to  the  coach 
in  a  state  of  anxiety  and  expectation,  to  look  for  the  arrival  of 
his  successor,  could  find  no  one  at  all  answering  the  description 
but  a  round-faced  man  in  a  short  black  coat  (like  a  shooting-  10 
jacket)  which  hardly  seemed  to  have  been  made  for  him,  but 
who  seemed  to  be  talking  at  a  great  rate  to  his  fellow-passen- 
gers. Mr.  Rowe  had  scarce  returned  to  give  an  account  of  his 
disappointment,  when  the  round-faced  man  in  black  entered, 
and  dissipated  all  doubts  on  the  subject,  by  beginning  to  talk.  15 
He  did  not  cease  while  he  staid ;  nor  has  he  since,  that  I  know 
of.  He  held  the  good  town  of  Shrewsbury  in  delightful  sus- 
pense for  three  weeks  that  he  remained  there,  "  fluttering  the 
proud  Salopians  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote ;  "  and  the  Welch 
mountains  that  skirt  the  horizon  with  their  tempestuous  con-  20 
fusion,  agree  to  have  heard  no  such  mystic  sounds  since  the 

days  of 

"  High-born  Hoel's  harp  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay  !  " 

As  we  passed  along  between  W m  and  Shrewsbury,  and 

I  eyed  their  blue  tops  seen  through  the  wintry  branches,  or  25 
the  red  rustling  leaves  of  the  sturdy  oak-trees  by  the  roadside, 
a  sound  was  in  my  ears  as  of  a  Siren's  song ;  I  was  stunned, 
startled  with  ifc,  as  from  deep  sleep ;  but  I  had  no  notion  then 
that  I  should  ever  be  able  to  express  my  admiration  to  others 

175 


1/6  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

in  motley  imagery  or  quaint  allusion,  till  the  light  of  his  genius 
shone  into  my  soul,  like  the  sun's  rays  glittering  in  the  puddles 
of  the  road.  I  was  at  that  time  dumb,  inarticulate,  helpless, 
like  a  worm  by  the  way-side,  crushed,  bleeding,  lifeless ;  but 
5  now,  bursting  from  the  deadly  bands  that  "  bound  them, 

"  With  Styx  nine  times  round  them," 

my  ideas  float  on  winged  words,  and  as  they  expand  their  plumes, 
catch  the  golden  light  of  other  years.  My  soul  has  indeed  re- 
mained in  its  original  bondage,  dark,  obscure,  with  longings 

lo  infinite  and  unsatisfied ;  my  heart,  shut  up  in  the  prison-house 
of  this  rude  clay,  has  never  found,  nor  will  it  ever  find,  a  heart  to 
speak  to ;  but  that  my  understanding  also  did  not  remain  dumb 
and  brutish,  or  at  length  found  a  language  to  express  itself,  I 
owe  to  Coleridge.    But  this  is  not  to  my  purpose. 

15  My  father  lived  ten  miles  from  Shrewsbury,  and  was  in  the 
habit  of  exchanging  visits  with  Mr.  Rowe,  and  with  Mr.  Jenkins 
of  Whitchurch  (nine  miles  farther  on)  according  to  the  custom  of 
Dissenting  Ministers  in  each  other's  neighbourhood.  A  line 
of  communication  is  thus  established,  by  which  the  flame  of  civil 

20  and  religious  liberty  is  kept  alive,  and  nourishes  its  smouldering 
fire  unquenchable,  like  the  fires  in  the  Agamemnon  of  vEschylus, 
placed  at  different  stations,  that  waited  for  ten  long  years  to 
announce  with  their  blazing  pyramids  the  destruction  of  Troy. 
Coleridge  had  agreed  to  come  over  and  see  my  father,  according 

25  to  the  courtesy  of  the  country,  as  Mr.  Rowe's  probable  suc- 
cessor ;  but  in  the  mean  time  I  had  gone  to  hear  him  preach 
the  Sunday  after  his  arrival.  A  poet  and  a  philosopher  getting 
up  into  a  Unitarian  pulpit  to  preach  the  Gospel,  was  a  romance 
in  these  degenerate  days,  a  sort  of  revival  of  the  primitive  spirit 

30  of  Christianity,  which  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

It  was  in  January,  i  798,  that  I  rose  one  morning  before  day- 
light, to  walk  ten  miles  in  the  mud,  and  went  to  hear  this  cele- 
brated person  preach.    Never,  the  longest  day  I  have  to  live,  shall 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH   POETS       177 

I  have  such  another  walk  as  this  cold,  raw,  comfortless  one,  in 
the  winter  of  the  year  1798.  H  y  a  des  impressions  que  ni  le  terns 
ni  les  circonstafices peuvent  effacer.  Diisse-je  vivre  des  siedes  entiers, 
le  doux  tems  de  ma  jeunesse  ne  peut  renattre  pour  moi,  ni  s' effacer 
jamais  dans  ma  mhnoire.  When  I  got  there,  the  organ  was  s 
playing  the  looth  psalm,  and,  when  it  was  done,  Mr.  Coleridge 
rose  and  gave  out  his  text,  "  And  he  went  up  into  the  moun- 
tain to  pray,  himself,  alone."  As  he  gave  out  this  text,  his 
voice  "  rose  like  a  steam  of  rich  distilled  perfumes,"  and  when 
he  came  to  the  two  last  words,  which  he  pronounced  loud,  deep,  10 
and  distinct,  it  seemed  to  me,  who  was  then  young,  as  if  the 
sounds  had  echoed  from  the  bottom  of  the  human  heart,  and  as 
if  that  prayer  might  have  floated  in  solemn  silence  through  the 
universe.  The  idea  of  St.  John  came  into  mind,  "  of  one  crying 
in  the  wilderness,  who  had  his  loins  girt  about,  and  whose  food  15 
was  locusts  and  wild  honey."  The  preacher  then  launched  into 
his  subject,  like  an  eagle  dallying  with  the  wind.  The  sermon 
was  upon  peace  and  war ;  upon  church  and  state  —  not  their 
alliance,  but  their  separation  —  on  the  spirit  of  the  world  and 
the  spirit  of  Christianity,  not  as  the  same,  but  as  opposed  to  20 
one  another.  He  talked  of  those  who  had  "  inscribed  the  cross 
of  Christ  on  banners  dripping  with  human  gore."  He  made  a 
poetical  and  pastoral  excursion,  —  and  to  shew  the  fatal  effects 
of  war,  drew  a  striking  contrast  between  the  simple  shepherd 
boy,  driving  his  team  afield,  or  sitting  under  the  hawthorn,  pip-  25 
ing  to  his  flock,  "  as  though  he  should  never  be  old,"  and  the 
same  poor  country-lad,  crimped,  kidnapped,  brought  into  town, 
made  drunk  at  an  alehouse,  turned  into  a  wretched  drummer- 
boy,  with  his  hair  sticking  on  end  with  powder  and  pomatum, 
a  long  cue  at  his  back,  and  tricked  out  in  llie  loathsome  finery  30 
of  the  profession  of  blood. 

"  Such  were  the  notes  our  once-lov'd  poet  sung." 
And  for  mvsclf,  I  could  not  have  been  more  delighted  if  I  had 


1/8  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

heard  the  music  of  the  spheres.  Poetry  and  Philosophy  had 
met  together,  Truth  and  Genius  had  embraced,  under  the  eye 
and  with  the  sanction  of  Religion.  This  was  even  beyond  my 
hopes.  I  returned  home  well  satisfied.  The  sun  that  was  still 
5  labouring  pale  and  wan  through  the  sky,  obscured  by  thick 
mists,  seemed  an  emblem  of  the  good  cause ;  and  the  cold  dank 
drops  of  dew  that  hung  half  melted  on  the  beard  of  the  thistle, 
had  something  genial  and  refreshing  in  them ;  for  there  was  a 
spirit  of  hope  and  youth  in  all  nature,  that  turned  everything 
lo  into  good.  The  face  of  nature  had  not  then  the  brand  of  Jus 
DiviNUM  on  it : 

"  Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscrib'd  witli  woe." 

On  the  Tuesday  following,  the  half-inspired  speaker  came. 
I  was  called  down  into  the  room  where  he  was,  and  went  half- 

15  hoping,  half-afraid.  He  received  me  very  graciously,  and  I 
listened  for  a  long  time  without  uttering  a  word.  I  did  not 
suffer  in  his  opinion  by  my  silence.  "  For  those  two  hours,"  he 
afterwards  was  pleased  to  say,  "  he  was  conversing  with  W.  H.'s 
forehead !  "    His  appearance  was  different  from  what  I  had 

20  anticipated  from  seeing  him  before.    At  a  distance,  and  in  the 

dim  light  of  the  chapel,  there  was  to  me  a  strange  wildness 

in  his  aspect,  a  dusky  obscurity,  and  I  thought  him  pitted  with 

the  small-po.x.    His  complexion  was  at  that  time  clear,  and  even 

bright  — 
25  "As  are  the  children  of  yon  azure  sheen." 

His  forehead  was  broad  and  high,  light  as  if  built  of  ivory, 
with  large  projecting  eyebrows,  and  his  eyes  rolling  beneath 
them  like  a  sea  with  darkened  lustre.  "  A  certain  tender  bloom 
his  face  o'erspread,"  a  purple  tinge  as  we  see  it  in  the  pale 
30  thoughtful  complexions  of  the  Spanish  portrait-painters,  Murillo 
and  Velasquez.  His  mouth  was  gross,  voluptuous,  open,  elo- 
quent ;  his  chin  good-humoured  and  round  ;  but  his  nose,  the 
rudder  of  the  face,  the  index  of  the  will,  was  small,  feeble, 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH   POETS       1 79 

nothing  —  like  what  he  has  done.  It  might  seem  that  the 
genius  of  his  face  as  from  a  height  surveyed  and  projected 
him  (with  sufficient  capacity  and  huge  aspiration)  into  the  world 
unknown  of  thought  and  imagination,  with  nothing  to  support 
or  guide  his  veering  purpose,  as  if  Columbus  had  launched  5 
his  adventurous  course  for  the  New  World  in  a  scallop,  without 
oars  or  compass.  So  at  least  I  comment  on  it  after  the  event. 
Coleridge  in  his  person  was  rather  above  the  common  size,  in- 
clining to  the  corpulent,  or  like  Lord  Hamlet,  "  somewhat  fat 
and  pursy."  His  hair  (now,  alas !  grey)  was  then  black  and  10 
glossy  as  the  raven's,  and  fell  in  smooth  masses  over  his  fore- 
head. This  long  pendulous  hair  is  peculiar  to  enthusiasts,  to 
those  whose  minds  tend  heavenward  ;  and  is  traditionally  insep- 
arable (though  of  a  different  colour)  from  the  pictures  of  Christ. 
It  ought  to  belong,  as  a  character,  to  all  who  preach  Christ  15 
crucified,  and  Coleridge  was  at  that  time  one  of  those ! 

It  was  curious  to  observe  the  contrast  between  him  and  my 
father,  who  was  a  veteran  in  the  cause,  and  then  declining  into 
the  vale  of  years.  He  had  been  a  poor  Irish  lad,  carefully 
brought  up  by  his  parents,  and  sent  to  the  University  of  Glas-  20 
gow  (where  he  studied  under  Adam  Smith)  to  prepare  him  for 
his  future  destination.  It  was  his  mother's  proudest  wish  to  see 
her  son  a  Dissenting  Minister.  So  if  we  look  back  to  past  gen- 
erations (as  far  as  eye  can  reach)  we  see  the  same  hopes,  fears, 
wishes,  followed  by  the  same  disappointments,  throbbing  in  the  25 
human  heart ;  and  so  we  may  see  them  (if  we  look  forward) 
rising  up  for  ever,  and  disappearing,  like  vapourish  bubbles,  in 
the  human  breast !  After  being  tossed  about  from  congregation 
to  congregation  in  the  heats  of  the  Unitarian  controversy,  and 
squabbles  about  the  American  war,  he  had  been  relegated  to  an  30 
obscure  village,  where  he  was  to  spend  the  last  thirty  years  of 
his  life,  far  from  the  only  converse  that  he  loved,  the  talk  about 
disputed  texts  of  Scripture  and  the  cause  of  civil  and  religious 
liberty.    Here  he  passed  his  days,  repining  but  resigned,  in  the 


l8o  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

study  of  the  Bible,  and  the  perusal  of  the  Commentators,  —  huge 
folios,  not  easily  got  through,  one  of  which  would  outlast  a 
winter !  Why  did  he  pore  on  these  from  morn  to  night  (with 
the  exception  of  a  walk  in  the  fields  or  a  turn  in  the  garden  to 
5  gather  brocoli-plants  or  kidney-beans  of  his  own  rearing,  with 
no  small  degree  of  pride  and  pleasure)  ?  Here  were  "  no  figures 
nor  no  fantasies,  " —  neither  poetry  nor  philosophy  —  nothing 
to  dazzle,  nothing  to  excite  modern  curiosity ;  but  to  his  lack- 
lustre eyes  there  appeared,  within  the  pages  of  the  ponderous, 

lo  unwieldy,  neglected  tomes,  the  sacred  name  of  JEHOVAH  in 
Hebrew  capitals  :  pressed  down  by  the  weight  of  the  style,  worn 
to  the  last  fading  thinness  of  the  understanding,  there  were 
glimpses,  glimmering  notions  of  the  patriarchal  wanderings, 
with   palm-trees  hovering  in  the  horizon,   and   processions   of 

1 5  camels  at  the  distance  of  three  thousand  years ;  there  was  Moses 
with  the  Burning  Bush,  the  number  of  the  Twelve  Tribes,  types, 
shadows,  glosses  on  the  law  and  the  prophets ;  there  were  dis- 
cussions (dull  enough)  on  the  age  of  Methuselah,  a  mighty 
speculation !  there  were  outlines,  rude  guesses  at  the  shape  of 

20  Noah's  Ark  and  of  the  riches  of  Solomon's  Temple ;  questions 
as  to  the  date  of  the  creation,  predictions  of  the  end  of  all 
things ;  the  great  lapses  of  time,  the  strange  mutations  of  the 
globe  were  unfolded  with  the  voluminous  leaf,  as  it  turned 
over ;  and  though  the  soul  might  slumber  with  an  hieroglyphic 

25  veil  of  inscrutable  mysteries  drawn  over  it,  yet  it  was  in  a  slumber 
ill-exchanged  for  all  the  sharpened  realities  of  sense,  wit,  fancy, 
or  reason.  My  father's  life  was  comparatively  a  dream ;  but  it 
was  a  dream  of  infinity  and  eternity,  of  death,  the  resurrection, 
and  a  judgment  to  come ! 

30  No  two  individuals  were  ever  more  unlike  than  were  the  host 
and  his  guest.  A  poet  was  to  my  father  a  sort  of  nondescript : 
yet  whatever  added  grace  to  the  Unitarian  cause  was  to  him 
welcome.  He  could  hardly  have  been  more  surprised  or  pleased, 
if  our  visitor  had  worn  wings.    Indeed,  his  thoughts  had  wings; 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH   POETS       l8l 

and  as  the  silken  sounds  rustled  round  our  litde  wainscoted 
parlour,  my  father  threw  back  his  spectacles  over  his  forehead, 
his  white  hairs  mixing  with  its  sanguine  hue ;  and  a  smile  of 
delight  beamed  across  his  rugged  cordial  face,  to  think  that 
Truth  had  found  a  new  ally  in  Fancy !  ^    Besides,  Coleridge  5 
seemed  to  take  considerable  notice  of  me,  and  that  of  itself  was 
enough.    He  talked  very  familiarly,  but  agreeably,  and  glanced 
over  a  variety  of  subjects.    At  dinner-time  he  grew  more  ani- 
mated, and  dilated  in  a  very  edifying  manner  on  Mary  Wolstone- 
craft  and  Mackintosh.    The  last,  he  said,  he  considered  (on  my  10 
father's  speaking  of  his  Viiuiicia  Gallicce  as  a  capital  perform- 
ance) as  a  clever  scholastic  man  —  a  master  of  the  topics,  —  or 
as  the  ready  warehouseman  of  letters,  who  knew  exactly  where 
to  lay  his  hand  on  what  he  wanted,  though  the  goods  were  not 
his  own.    He  thought  him  no  match  for  Burke,  either  in  style  15 
or  matter.     Burke  was  a  metaphysician,  Mackintosh  a  mere 
logician.    Burke  was  an  orator  (almost  a  poet)  who  reasoned  in 
figures,  because  he  had  an  eye  for  nature :  Mackintosh,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  a  rhetorician,  who  had  only  an  eye  to  common- 
places.   On  this  I  ventured  to  say  that  I  had  always  entertained  20 
a  great  opinion  of  Burke,  and  that  (as  far  as  I  could  find)  the 
speaking  of  him  with  contempt  might  be  made  the.  test  of  a 
vukar  democratical  mind.    This  was  the  first  observation  I  ever 
made  to  Coleridge,  and  he  said  it  was  a  very  just  and  striking 
one.    I  remember  the  leg  of  Welsh  mutton  and  the  turnips  on  25 
the  table  that  day  had  the  finest  flavour  imaginable.    Coleridge 
added  that  Mackintosh  and  Tom  Wedgwood  (of  whom,  how- 
ever, he  spoke  highly)  had  expressed  a  very  indifferent  opinion 
of  his  friend  Mr.  W^ordsworth,  on  which  he  remarked  to  them 
—  "  He  strides  on  so  far  before  you,  that  he  dwindles  in  the  30 
distance  !  "    Godwin  had  once  boasted  to  him  of  having  carried 

1  My  father  was  one  of  those  who  mistook  his  talent  after  all.  He  used  to  be 
very  much  dissatisfied  that  1  preferred  his  Letters  to  his  Sermons.  The  last  were 
forced  and  dry  ;  the  first  came  naturally  from  him.  For  ease,  half-plays  on  words, 
and  a  supine,  monkish,  indolent  pleasantry,  I  have  never  seen  them  equalled. 


1 82  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

on  an  argument  with  Mackintosh  for  three  hours  with  dubious 
success ;  Coleridge  told  him  —  "  If  there  had  been  a  man  of 
genius  in  the  room,  he  would  have  settled  the  question  in  five 
minutes."    He  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen  Mary  Wolstonecraft, 

5  and  I  said,  I  had  once  for  a  few  moments,  and  that  she  seemed 
to  me  to  turn  off  Godwin's  objections  to  something  she  advanced 
with  quite  a  playful,  easy  air.  He  replied,  that  "  this  was  only 
one  instance  of  the  ascendancy  which  people  of  imagination 
exercised  over  those  of  mere  intellect."    He  did  not  rate  Godwin 

lo  very  high  ^  (this  was  caprice  or  prejudice,  real  or  affected)  but 
he  had  a  great  idea  of  Mrs.  Wolstonecraft's  powers  of  conversa- 
tion, none  at  all  of  her  talent  for  book-making.  We  talked  a 
little  about  Holcroft.  He  had  been  asked  if  he  was  not  much 
struck  with  him,  and  he  said,  he  thought  himself  in  more  danger 

15  of  being  struck  by  him.  I  complained  that  he  would  not  let  me 
get  on  at  all,  for  he  required  a  definition  of  every  the  commonest 
word,  exclaiming,  "  What  do  you  mean  by  a  sensation,  Sir  ?  What 
do  you  mean  by  an  idea  ?  "  This,  Coleridge  said,  was  barricado- 
ing  the  road  to  truth :  —  it  was  setting  up  a  turnpike-gate  at 

20  every  step  we  took.  I  forget  a  great  number  of  things,  many 
more  than  I  remember ;  but  the  day  passed  off  pleasantly,  and 
the  next  morning  Mr.  Coleridge  was  to  return  to  Shrewsbury. 
When  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  I  found  that  he  had  just 
received  a  letter  from  his  friend,  T.  Wedgwood,  making  him  an 

25  offer  of  ^^150  a-year  if  he  chose  to  wave  his  present  pursuit, 
and  devote  himself  entirely  to  the  study  of  poetry  and  philoso- 
phy. Coleridge  seemed  to  make  up  his  mind  to  close  with  this 
proposal  in  the  act  of  tying  on  one  of  his  shoes.  It  threw  an 
additional  damp  on  his  departure.    It  took  the  wayward  enthu- 

30  siast  quite  from  us  to  cast  him  into  Deva's  winding  vales,  or 
by  the  shores  of  old  romance.    Instead  of  living  at  ten  miles 

1  He  complained  in  particular  of  the  presumption  of  his  attempting  to  estab- 
lish the  future  immortality  of  man,  "  without"  (as  he  said)  "  knowing  what  Death 
was  or  what  Life  was  "  —  and  the  tone  in  which  he  pronounced  these  two  words 
seemed  to  convey  a  complete  image  of  both. 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS       1 83 

distance,  of  being  the  pastor  of  a  Dissenting  congregation  at 
Shrewsbury,  he  was  henceforth  to  inhabit  the  Hill  of  Parnassus, 
to  be  a  Shepherd  on  the  Delectable  Mountains.  Alas !  I  knew 
not  the  way  thither,  and  felt  very  little  gratitude  for  Mr.  Wedg- 
wood's bounty.  I  was  pleasantly  relieved  from  this  dilemma ;  5 
for  Mr.  Coleridge,  asking  for  a  pen  and  ink,  and  going  to  a 
table  to  write  something  on  a  bit  of  card,  advanced  towards  me 
with  undulating  step,  and  giving  me  the  precious  document, 
said  that  that  was  his  address,  Mr.  Coleridge.,  Nether-Stowey, 
Somersetshire ;  and  that  he  should  be  glad  to  see  me  there  in  a  10 
few  weeks'  time,  and,  if  I  chose,  would  come  half-way  to  meet 
me.  I  was  not  less  surprised  than  the  shepherd-boy  (this  simile 
is  to  be  found  in  Cassandra)  when  he  sees  a  thunder-bolt  fall 
close  at  his  feet.  I  stammered  out  my  acknowledgments  and 
acceptance  of  this  offer  (I  thought  Mr.  Wedgwood's  annuity  a  1 5 
trifle  to  it)  as  well  as  I  could ;  and  this  mighty  business  being 
settled,  the  poet-preacher  took  leave,  and  I  accompanied  him  six 
miles  on  the  road.  It  was  a  fine  morning  in  the  middle  of  winter, 
and  he  talked  the  whole  way.  The  scholar  in  Chaucer  is  de- 
scribed as  going  20 
"  Sounding  on  his  way." 

So  Coleridge  went  on  his.  In  digressing,  in  dilating,  in  passing 
from  subject  to  subject,  he  appeared  to  me  to  float  in  air,  to 
slide  on  ice.  He  told  me  in  confidence  (going  along)  that  he 
should  have  preached  two  sermons  before  he  accepted  the  situ-  25 
ation  at  Shrewsbury,  one  on  Infant  Baptism,  the  other  on  the 
Lord's  Supper,  shewing  that  he  could  not  administer  cither, 
which  would  have  effectually  disqualified  him  for  the  object  in 
view.  I  observed  that  he  continually  crossed  me  on  the  way  by 
shifting  from  one  side  of  the  foot-path  to  the  other.  This  struck  30 
me  as  an  odd  movement ;  but  I  did  not  at  that  time  connect  it 
with  any  instability  of  purpose  or  involuntary  change  of  principle, 
as  I  have  done  since.  He  seemed  unable  to  keep  on  in  a  strait 
line.   He  spoke  slightingly  of  Hume  (whose  Essay  on  Miracles  he 


1 84  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

said  was  stolen  from  an  objection  started  in  one  of  South's  Ser- 
mons—  Credat  Judasus  Apella!)  I  was  not  very  much  pleased 
at  this  account  of  Hume,  for  I  had  just  been  reading,  with 
infinite  relish,  that  completest  of  all  metaphysical  choke-pears, 
5  his  Treatise  on  Human  Nature,  to  which  the  Essays,  in  point  of 
scholastic  subtlety  and  close  reasoning,  are  mere  elegant  trifling, 
light  summer-reading.  Coleridge  even  denied  the  excellence  of 
Hume's  general  style,  which  I  think  betrayed  a  want  of  taste 
or  candour.    He  however  made  me  amends  by  the  manner  in 

10  which  he  spoke  of  Berkeley.  He  dwelt  particularly  on  his  Essay 
on  Vision  as  a  masterpiece  of  analytical  reasoning.  So  it  un- 
doubtedly is.  He  was  exceedingly  angry  with  Dr.  Johnson  for 
striking  the  stone  with  his  foot,  in  allusion  to  this  author's  Theory 
of  Matter  and  Spirit,  and  saying,  "  Thus  I  confute  him.  Sir." 

1 5  Coleridge  drew  a  parallel  (I  don't  know  how  he  brought  about 
the  connection)  between  Bishop  Berkeley  and  Tom  Paine.  He 
said  the  one  was  an  instance  of  a  subtle,  the  other  of  an  acute 
mind,  than  which  no  two  things  could  be  more  distinct.  The 
one  was  a  shop-boy's  quality,  the  other  the  characteristic  of  a 

20  philosopher.  He  considered  Bishop  Butler  as  a  true  philosopher, 
a  profound  and  conscientious  thinker,  a  genuine  reader  of  nature 
and  his  own  mind.  He  did  not  speak  of  his  Analogy,  but  of 
his  Sermons  at  the  Rolls'  Chapel,  of  which  I  had  never  heard. 
Coleridge  somehow  always  contrived  to  prefer  the  unkmnvn  to 

25  the  knotiin.  In  this  instance  he  was  right.  The  Analogy  is  a 
tissue  of  sophistry,  of  wire-drawn,  theological  special-pleading ; 
the  Sermons  (with  the  Preface  to  them)  are  in  a  fine  vein  of 
deep,  matured  reflection,  a  candid  appeal  to  our  observation  of 
human    nature,    without   pedantry  and    without   bias.     I    told 

30  Coleridge  I  had  written  a  few  remarks,  and  was  sometimes 
foolish  enough  to  believe  that  I  had  made  a  discovery  on  the 
same  subject  (the  Natural  Disinterestedness  of  the  Huynan 
Mind)  —  and  I  tried  to  explain  my  view  of  it  to  Coleridge,  who 
listened  with  great  willingness,  but  I  did  not  succeed  in  making 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH    POETS       1 85 

myself  understood.    I  sat  down  to  the  task  shortly  afterwards 
for  the  twentieth  time,  got  new  pens  and  paper,  determined  to 
make  clear  work  of  it,  wrote  a  few  meagre  sentences  in  the 
skeleton-style  of  a  mathematical  demonstration,  stopped  half 
way  down  the  second  page ;  and,  after  trying  in  vain  to  pump  5 
up  any  words,  images,  notions,  apprehensions,  facts,  or  observa- 
tions, from  that  gulph  of  abstraction  in  which  I  had  plunged 
myself  for  four  or  five  years  preceding,  gave  up  the  attempt  as 
labour  in  vain,  and  shed  tears  of  helpless  despondency  on  the 
blank  unfinished  paper.    I  can  write  fast  enough  now.    Am  I  10 
better  than  I  was  then  ?    Oh  no  !    One  truth  discovered,  one 
pang  of  regret  at  not  being  able  to  express  it,  is  better  than  all 
the  fluency  and  flippancy  in  the  world.    Would  that  I  could  go 
back  to  what  I  then  was !    Why  can  we  not  revive  past  times 
as  we  can  revisit  old  places  ?    If  I  had  the  quaint  Muse  of  Sir  1 5 
Philip  Sidney  to  assist  me,  I  would  write  a  Sonnet  to  the  Road 

between  W- m  and  Shrewsbury,  and  immortalise  ever)'  step 

of  it  by  some  fond  enigmatical  conceit.  I  would  swear  that  the 
very  milestones  had  ears,  and  that  Harmer-hill  stooped  with  all 
its  pines,  to  listen  to  a  poet,  as  he  passed  !  I  remember  but  one  20 
other  topic  of  discourse  in  this  walk.  He  mentioned  Paley, 
praised  the  naturalness  and  clearness  of  his  style,  but  condemned 
his  sentiments,  thought  him  a  mere  time-serving  casuist,  and 
said  that  "  the  fact  of  his  work  on  Moral  and  Political  Philosophy 
being  made  a  text-book  in  our  Universities  was  a  disgrace  to  25 
the  national  character."  We  parted  at  the  six-mile  stone  ;  and  I 
returned  homeward,  pensive  but  much  pleased.  I  had  met  with 
unexpected  notice  from  a  person,  whom  I  believed  to  have  been 
prejudiced  against  me.  "  Kind  and  affable  to  me  had  been  his 
condescension,  and  should  be  honoured  ever  with  suitable  re-  30 
gard."  He  was  the  first  poet  I  had  known,  and  he  certainly 
answered  to  that  inspired  name.  I  had  heard  a  great  deal  of 
his  powers  of  conversation,  and  was  not  disappointed.  In  fact, 
1  never  met  with  any  thing  at  all  like  them,  either  before  or 


1 86  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

since.  I  could  easily  credit  the  accounts  which  were  circulated 
of  his  holding  forth  to  a  large  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  an 
evening  or  two  before,  on  the  Berkeleian  Theory,  when  he  made 
the  whole  material  universe  look  like  a  transparency  of  fine 
5  words ;  and  another  story  (which  I  believe  he  has  somewhere 
told  himself)  of  his  being  asked  to  a  party  at  Birmingham,  of 
his  smoking  tobacco  and  going  to  sleep  after  dinner  on  a  sofa, 
where  the  company  found  him  to  their  no  small  surprise,  which 
was  increased  to  wonder  when  he  started  up  of  a  sudden,  and 

10  rubbing  his  eyes,  looked  about  him,  and  launched  into  a  three- 
hours'  description  of  the  third  heaven,  of  which  he  had  had  a 
dream,  very  different  from  Mr.  Southey's  Vision  of  Judgment, 
and  also  from  that  other  Vision  of  Judgment,  which  Mr.  Murray, 
the  Secretary  of  the  Bridge-street  Junto,  has  taken  into  his 

15  especial  keeping! 

On  my  way  back,  I  had  a  sound  in  my  ears,  it  was  the  voice 
of  Fancy :  I  had  a  light  before  me,  it  was  the  face  of  Poetry. 
The  one  still  lingers  there,  the  other  has  not  quitted  my  side ! 
Coleridge  in  truth  met  me  half-way  on  the  ground  of  philosophy, 

20  or  I  should  not  have  been  won  over  to  his  imaginative  creed. 
I  had  an  uneasy,  pleasurable  sensation  all  the  time,  till  I  was 
to  visit  him.  During  those  months  the  chill  breath  of  winter 
gave  me  a  welcoming ;  the  vernal  air  was  balm  and  inspiration 
to  me.    The  golden  sun-sets,  the  silver  star  of  evening,  lighted 

25  me  on  my  way  to  new  hopes  and  prospects.  /  was  to  visit 
Coleridge  in  the  Spring.  This  circumstance  was  never  absent 
from  my  thoughts,  and  mingled  with  all  my  feelings.  I  wrote 
to  him  at  the  time  proposed,  and  received  an  answer  postponing 
my  intended  visit  for  a  week  or  two,  but  very  cordially  urging 

30  me  to  complete  my  promise  then.  This  delay  did  not  damp, 
but  rather  increased  my  ardour.  In  the  mean  time  I  went  to 
Llangollen  Vale,  by  way  of  initiating  myself  in  the  mysteries  of 
natural  scenery  ;  and  1  must  say  I  was  enchanted  with  it.  I  had 
been  reading  Coleridge's  description  of  England,  in  his  fine  Ode 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS       187 

on  the  Departing  Year,  and  I  applied  it,  con  amorc,  to  the  objects 
before  me.  That  valley  was  to  me  (in  a  manner)  the  cradle  of 
a  new  existence :  in  the  river  that  winds  through  it,  my  spirit 
was  baptised  in  the  waters  of  Helicon ! 

I  returned  home,  and  soon  after  set  out  on  my  journey  with  5 
unworn  heart  and  untried  feet.   My  way  lay  through  Worcester 
and  Gloucester,  and  by  Upton,  where  I  thought  of  Tom  Jones 
and  the  adventure  of  the  muff.    I  remember  getting  completely 
wet  through  one  day,  and  stopping  at  an  inn  (I  think  it  was  at 
Tewkesbury)  where  I  sat  up  all  night  to  read  Paul  and  Virginia.  10 
Sweet  were  the  showers  in  early  youth  that  drenched  my  body, 
and  sweet  the  drops  of  pity  that  fell  upon  the  books  I  read ! 
I  recollect  a  remark  of  Coleridge's  upon  this  very  book,  that 
nothing  could  shew  the  gross  indelicacy  of  French  manners  and 
the  entire  corruption  of  their  imagination  more  strongly  than  the  1 5 
behaviour  of  the  heroine  in  the  last  fatal  scene,  who  turns  away 
from  a  person  on  board  the  sinking  vessel,  that  offers  to  save 
her  life,  because  he  has  thrown  off  his  clothes  to  assist  him  in 
swimming.    Was  this  a  time  to  think  of  such  a  circumstance  ? 
I  once  hinted  to  Wordsworth,  as  we  were  sailing  in  his  boat  on  20 
Grasmere  lake,  that  I  thought  he  had  borrowed  the  idea  of  his 
Poems  on  the  Naming  of  Places  from  the  local  inscriptions  of 
the  same  kind  in  Paul  and  Virginia.    He  did  not  own  the  obli- 
gation, and  stated  some  distinction  without  a  difference,  in  defence 
of  his  claim  to  originality.    Any  the  slightest  variation  would  be  25 
sufficient  for  this  purpose  in  his  mind ;  for  whatever  he  added 
or  omitted  would  inevitably  be  worth  all  that  any  one  else  had 
done,  and  contain  the  marrow  of  the  sentiment.    I  was  still  two 
days  before  the  time  fixed  for  my  arrival,  for  I  had  taken  care 
to  set  out  early  enough.    I  stopped  these  two  days  at  Bridge-  30 
water,  and  when  I  was  tired  of  sauntering  on  the  banks  of  its 
muddy  river,  returned  to  the  inn,  and  read  Camilla.    So  have 
I  loitered  my  life  away,  reading  books,  looking  at  pictures,  going 
to  plays,  hearing,  thinking,  writing  on  what  pleased  me  best.    I 


l88  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

have  wanted  only  one  thing  to  make  me  happy ;   but  wanting 
that,  have  wanted  everything  ! 

I  arrived,  and  was  well  received.    The  country  about  Nether 
Stowey  is  beautiful,  green  and  hilly,  and  near  the  sea-shore. 

5  I  saw  it  but  the  other  day,  after  an  interval  of  twenty  years, 
from  a  hill  near  Taunton.  How  was  the  map  of  my  life  spread 
out  before  me,  as  the  map  of  the  country  lay  at  my  feet !  In 
the  afternoon  Coleridge  took  me  over  to  All-Foxden,  a  romantic 
old  family-mansion  of  the  St.  Aubins,  where  Wordsworth  lived. 

lo  It  was  then  in  the  possession  of  a  friend  of  the  poet's,  who 
gave  him  the  free  use  of  it.  Somehow  that  period  (the  time 
just  after  the  French  Revolution)  was  not  a  time  when  nothing 
was  given  for  7iothing.  The  mind  opened,  and  a  softness  might 
be  perceived  coming  over  the  heart  of  individuals,  beneath  "  the 

15  scales  that  fence"  our  self-interest.  Wordsworth  himself  was 
from  home,  but  his  sister  kept  house,  and  set  before  us  a  frugal 
repast ;  and  we  had  free  access  to  her  brother's  poems,  the  Lyri- 
cal Ballads,  which  were  still  in  manuscript,  or  in  the  form  of 
Syhilline  Leaves.    I  dipped  into  a  few  of  these  with  great  satis- 

20  faction,  and  with  the  faith  of  a  novice.  I  slept  that  night  in  an 
old  room  with  blue  hangings,  and  covered  with  the  round-faced 
family-portraits  of  the  age  of  George  I.  and  II.  and  from  the 
wooded  declivity  of  the  adjoining  park  that  overlooked  my 
window,  at  the  dawn  of  day,  could 

25  "hear  the  loud  stag  speak." 

In  the  outset  of  life  (and  particularly  at  this  time  I  felt  it  so) 
our  imagination  has  a  body  to  it.  \\'e  are  in  a  state  between 
sleeping  and  waking,  and  have  indistinct  but  glorious  glimpses 
of  strange  shapes,  and  there  is  always  something  to  come  better 
30  than  what  we  see.  As  in  our  dreams  the  fulness  of  the  blood 
gives  warmth  and  reality  to  the  coinage  of  the  brain,  so  in  youth 
our  ideas  are  clothed,  and  fed,  and  pampered  with  our  good 
spirits  ;  we  breathe  thick  with  thoughtless  happiness,  the  weight 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH   POETS       1 89 

of  future  years  presses  on  the  strong  pulses  of  the  heart,  and 
we  repose  with  undisturbed  faith  in  truth  and  good.  As  we 
advance,  we  exhaust  our  fund  of  enjoyment  and  of  hope.  We 
are  no  longer  wrapped  in  laniFs-wool,  lulled  in  Elysium.  As 
we  taste  the  pleasures  of  life,  their  spirit  evaporates,  the  sense  5 
palls  ;  and  nothing  is  left  but  the  phantoms,  the  lifeless  shadows 
of  what  has  been  / 

That  morning,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  we  strolled  out 
into  the  park,  and  seating  ourselves  on  the  trunk  of  an  old  ash- 
tree  that  stretched  along  the  ground,  Coleridge  read  aloud  with  10 
a  sonorous  and  musical  voice  the  ballad  of  Bctfy  Foy.  1  was 
not  critically  or  sceptically  inclined.  I  saw  touches  of  truth 
and  nature,  and  took  the  rest  for  granted.  But  in  the  Thorn, 
the  Mad  Alo/her,  and  the  Complaint  of  a  Poor  Indian  Woman, 
I  felt  that  deeper  power  and  pathos  which  have  been  since  15 
acknowledged, 

"In  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite," 

as  the  characteristics  of  this  author ;  and  the  sense  of  a  new 
style  and  a  new  spirit  in  poetry  came  over  me.     It  had  to  me 
something  of  the  effect  that  arises  from  the  turning  up  of  the  20 
fresh  soil,  or  of  the  first  welcome  breath  of  Spring : 

"  While  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconfirmed." 

Coleridge  and  myself  walked  back  to  Stowey  that  evening,  and 
his  voice  sounded  high 

"Of  Providence,  foreknowledge,  will,  and  fate,  25 

Fix'd  fate,  free-will,  foreknowledge  absolute," 

as  we  passed  through  echoing  grove,  by  fairy  stream  or  water- 
fall, gleaming  in  the  summer  moonlight !  He  lamented  that 
Wordsworth  was  not  prone  enough  to  bejieve  in  the  traditional 
superstitions  of  the  place,  and  that  there  was  a  something  cor-  30 
poreal,  a  matter-of-fact-tiess,  a  clinging  to  the  palpable,  or  often 
to  the  petty,  in  his  poetry,  in  consequence.   His  genius  was  not 


I90  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

a  spirit  that  descended  to  him  through  the  air ;  it  sprung  out 
of  the  ground  like  a  flower,  or  unfolded  itself  from  a  green 
spray,  on  which  the  gold-finch  sang.  He  said,  however  (if  I 
remember  right)  that  this  objection  must  be  confined  to  his 
5  descriptive  pieces,  that  his  philosophic  poetry  had  a  grand  and 
comprehensive  spirit  in  it,  so  that  his  soul  seemed  to  inhabit 
the  universe  like  a  palace,  and  to  discover  truth  by  intuition, 
rather  than  by  deduction.  The  next  day  Wordsworth  arrived 
from  Bristol  at  Coleridge's  cottage.    I  think  I  see  him  now. 

lo  He  answered  in  some  degree  to  his  friend's  description  of  him, 
but  was  more  gaunt  and  Don  Quixote-like.  He  was  quaintly 
dressed  (according  to  the  costume  of  that  unconstrained  period) 
in  a  brown  fustian  jacket  and  striped  pantaloons.  There  was 
something  of  a  roll,  a  lounge,  in  his  gait,  not  unlike  his  own 

15  Peter  Bell.  There  was  a  severe,  worn  pressure  of  thought 
about  his  temples,  a  fire  in  his  eye  (as  if  he  saw  something 
in  objects  more  than  the  outward  appearance)  an  intense  high 
narrow  forehead,  a  Roman  nose,  cheeks  furrowed  by  strong 
purpose  and  feeling,  and  a  convulsive  inclination  to  laughter 

20  about  the  mouth,  a  good  deal  at  variance  with  the  solemn, 
stately  expression  of  the  rest  of  his  face.  Chantry's  bust  wants 
the  marking  traits ;  but  he  was  teazed  into  making  it  regular 
and  heavy  :  Haydon's  head  of  him,  introduced  into  the  Entrance 
of  Christ  into  Jerusalem^  is  the  most  like  his  drooping  weight 

25  of  thought  and  expression.  He  sat  down  and  talked  very  natu- 
rally and  freely,  with  a  mixture  of  clear,  gushing  accents  in  his 
voice,  a  deep  guttural  intonation,  and  a  strong  tincture  of  the 
northern  btirr,  like  the  crust  on  wine.  He  instantly  began  to 
make  havoc  of  the  half  of  a  Cheshire  cheese  on  the  table,  and 

30  said  triumphantly  that  "  his  marriage  with  experience  had  not. 
been  so  productive  as  Mr.  Southey's  in  teaching  him  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  good  things  of  this  life."  He  had  been  to  see  the 
Castle  Spectre,  by  Monk  Lewis,  while  at  Bristol,  and  described 
it  very  well.    He  said  "  it  fitted  the  taste  of  the  audience  like  a 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH    POETS       191 

glove."  This  ad  captandum  merit  was  however  by  no  means  a 
recommendation  of  it,  according  to  the  severe  principles  of  the 
new  school,  which  reject  rather  than  court  popular  effect.  Words- 
worth, looking  out  of  the  low,  latticed  window,  said,  "  How 
beautifully  the  sun  sets  on  that  yellow  bank  !  "  I  thought  within  5 
myself,  "  With  what  eyes  these  poets  see  nature  1  "  and  ever 
after,  when  I  saw  the  sun-set  stream  upon  the  objects  facing 
it,  conceived  I  had  made  a  discovery,  or  thanked  Mr.  Words- 
worth for  having  made  one  for  me !  We  went  over  to  All- 
Foxden  again  the  day  following,  and  Wordsworth  read  us  the  10 
story  of  Peter  Bell  in  the  open  air ;  and  the  comment  made 
upon  it  by  his  face  and  voice  was  very  different  from  that  of 
some  later  critics !  Whatever  might  be  thought  of  the  poem, 
''  his  face  was  as  a  book  where  men  might  read  strange  mat- 
ters," and  he  announced  the  fate  of  his  hero  in  prophetic  tones.  15 
There  is  a  chaiuit  in  the  recitation  both  of  Coleridge  and  Words- 
worth, which  acts  as  a  spell  upon  the  hearer,  and  disarms  the 
judgment.  Perhaps  they  have  deceived  themselves  by  making 
habitual  use  of  this  ambiguous  accompaniment.  Coleridge's 
manner  is  more  full,  animated,  and  varied  ;  Wordsworth's  more  20 
equable,  sustained,  and  internal.  The  one  might  be  termed 
more  dramatic^  the  other  more  lyrical.  Coleridge  has  told  me 
that  he  himself  liked  to  compose  in  walking  over  uneven  ground, 
or  breaking  through  the  straggling  branches  of  a  copsewood ; 
whereas  Wordsworth  always  wrote  (if  he  could)  walking  up  and  25 
down  a  strait  gravel-walk,  or  in  some  spot  where  the  conti- 
nuity of  his  verse  met  with  no  collateral  interruption.  Returning 
that  same  evening,  I  got  into  a  metaphysical  argument  with 
Wordsworth,  while  Coleridge  was  explaining  the  different  notes 
of  the  nightingale  to  his  sister,  in  which  we  neither  of  us  sue-  30 
ceeded  in  making  ourselves  perfectly  clear  and  intelligible.  Thus 
I  passed  three  weeks  at  Nether  Stowey  and  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, generally  devoting  the  afternoons  to  a  delightful  chat  in 
an  arbour  made  of  bark  by  the  poet's  friend  Tom  Poole,  sitting 


192  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

under  two  fine  elm-trees,  and  listening  to  the  bees  humming 
round  us,  while  we  quaffed  our  flip.  It  was  agreed,  among 
other  things,  that  we  should  make  a  jaunt  down  the  Bristol- 
Channel,  as  far  as  Linton.    We  set  off  together  on  foot,  Cole- 

5  ridge,  John  Chester,  and  I.  This  Chester  was  a  native  of 
Nether  Stowey,  one  of  those  who  were  attracted  to  Coleridge's 
discourse  as  flies  are  to  honey,  or  bees  in  swarming-time  to  the 
sound  of  a  brass  pan.  He  "'  followed  in  the  chace  like  a  dog 
who  hunts,  not  like  one  that  made  up  the  cry."     He  had  on 

lo  a  brown  cloth  coat,  boots,  and  corduroy  breeches,  was  low  in 
stature,  bow-legged,  had  a  drag  in  his  walk  like  a  drover,  which 
he  assisted  by  a  hazel  switch,  and  kept  on  a  sort  of  trot  by  the 
side  of  Coleridge,  like  a  running  footman  by  a  state  coach,  that 
he  might  not  lose  a  syllable  or  sound,  that  fell  from  Coleridge's 

IS  lips.  He  told  me  his  private  opinion,  that  Coleridge  was  a 
wonderful  man.  He  scarcely  opened  his  lips,  much  less  offered 
an  opinion  the  whole  way :  yet  of  the  three,  had  I  to  chuse 
during  that  journey,  I  would  be  John  Chester.  He  afterwards 
followed  Coleridge  into  Germany,  where  the  Kantean  philoso- 

20  phers  were  puzzled  how  to  bring  him  under  any  of  their  cate- 
gories. When  he  sat  down  at  table  with  his  idol,  John's  felicity 
was  complete;  Sir  Walter  Scott's  or  Mr.  Blackwood's,  when 
they  sat  down  at  the  same  table  with  the  King,  was  not  more 
so.  We  passed  Dunster  on  our  right,  a  small  town  between  the 

25  brow  of  a  hill  and  the  sea.  I  remember  eying  it  wistfully  as  it 
lay  below  us  :  contrasted  with  the  woody  scene  abound,  it  looked 
as  clear,  as  pure,  as  embrowned  and  ideal  as  any  landscape  I 
have  seen  since,  of  Gasper  Poussin's  or  Domenichino's.  We 
had  a  long  day's  march  —  (our  feet  kept  time  to  the  echoes 

30  of  Coleridge's  tongue)  —  through  Minehead  and  by  the  Blue 
Anchor,  and  on  to  Linton,  which  we  did  not  reach  till  near 
midnight,  and  where  we  had  some  difficulty  in  making  a  lodg- 
ment. We  however  knocked  the  people  of  the  house  up  at  last, 
and  we  were  repaid  for  (jur  apprehensions  and  fatigue  by  some 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS       193 

excellent  rashers  of  fried  bacon  and  eggs.  The  view  in  coming 
along  had  been  splendid.  We  walked  for  miles  and  miles  on 
dark  brown  heaths  overlooking  the  channel,  with  the  Welsh 
hills  beyond,  and  at  times  descended  into  little  sheltered  valleys 
close  by  the  sea-side,  with  a  smuggler's  face  scowling  by  us,  and  5 
then  had  to  ascend  conical  hills  with  a  path  winding  up  through 
a  coppice  to  a  barren  top,  like  a  monk's  shaven  crown,  from 
one  of  which  I  pointed  out  to  Coleridge's  notice  the  bare  masts 
of  a  vessel  on  the  very  edge  of  the  horizon  and  within  the  red- 
orbed  disk  of  the  setting  sun,  like  his  own  spectre-ship  in  the  10 
Ancient  Mariner.  At  Linton  the  character  of  the  sea-coast  be- 
comes more  marked  and  rugged.  There  is  a  place  called  the 
Valley  of  Rocks  (I  suspect  this  was  only  the  poetical  name  for 
it)  bedded  among  precipices  overhanging  the  sea,  with  rocky 
caverns  beneath,  into  which  the  waves  dash,  and  where  the  sea-  15 
gull  for  ever  wheels  its  screaming  fiight.  On  the  tops  of  these 
are  huge  stones  thrown  transverse,  as  if  an  earthquake  had 
tossed  them  there,  and  behind  these  is  a  fretwork  of  perpen- 
dicular rocks,  something  like  the  Gia7ifs  Catcsezvay.  A  thunder- 
storm came  on  while  we  were  at  the  inn,  and  Coleridge  was  20 
running  out  bareheaded  to  enjoy  the  commotion  of  the  elements 
in  the  Valley  of  Rocks,  but  as  if  in  spite,  the  clouds  only  mut- 
tered a  few  angry  sounds,  and  let  fall  a  few  refreshing  drops. 
Coleridge  told  me  that  he  and  Wordsworth  were  to  have  made 
this  place  the  scene  of  a  prose-tale,  which  was  to  have  been  25 
in  the  manner  of,  but  far  superior  to,  the  Death  of  Abel,  but 
they  had  relinquished  the  design.  In  the  morning  of  the  second 
day,  we  breakfasted  luxuriously  in  an  old-fashioned  parlour,  on 
tea,  toast,  eggs,  and  honey,  in  the  very  sight  of  the  bee-hives 
from  which  it  had  been  taken,  and  a  garden  full  of  thyme  and  30 
wild  flowers  that  had  produced  it.  On  this  occasion  Coleridge 
spoke  of  Virgil's  Georgics,  but  not  well.  I  do  not  think  he  had 
much  feeling  for  the  classical  or  elegant.  It  was  in  this  room 
that  we  found  a  little  worn-out  copy  of  the  Seasons,  lying  in 


194  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

a  window-seat,  on  which  Coleridge  exclaimed,  "  That  is  true 
fame !  "  He  said  Thomson  was  a  great  poet,  rather  than  a 
good  one ;  his  style  was  as  meretricious  as  his  thoughts  were 
natural.  He  spoke  of  Cowper  as  the  best  modern  poet.  He 
5  said  the  Lyrical  Ballads  were  an  experiment  about  to  be  tried 
by  him  and  Wordsworth,  to  see  how  far  the  public  taste  would 
endure  poetry  written  in  a  more  natural  and  simple  style  than 
had  hitherto  been  attempted ;  totally  discarding  the  artifices  of 
poetical  diction,  and  making  use  only  of  such  words  as  had  prob- 

lo  ably  been  common  in  the  most  ordinary  language  since  the 
days  of  Henry  H.  Some  comparison  was  introduced  between 
Shakespear  and  Milton.  He  said  "  he  hardly  knew  which  to 
prefer.  Shakespear  appeared  to  him  a  mere  stripling  in  the  art; 
he  was  as  tall  and  as  strong,  with  infinitely  more  activity  than 

15  Milton,  but  he  never  appeared  to  have  come  to  man's  estate; 
or  if  he  had,  he  would  not  have  been  a  man,  but  a  monster." 
He  spoke  with  contempt  of  Gray,  and  with  intolerance  of  Pope. 
He  did  not  like  the  versification  of  the  latter.  He  observed  that 
"  the  ears  of  these  couplet-writers  might  be  charged  with  having 

20  short  memories,  that  could  not  retain  the  harmony  of  whole 
passages."  He  thought  little  of  Junius  as  a  writer ;  he  had  a 
dislike  of  Dr.  Johnson ;  and  a  much  higher  opinion  of  Burke 
as  an  orator  and  politician,  than  of  Fox  or  Pitt.  He  however 
thought  him  very  inferior  in  richness  of  style  and  imagery  to 

25  some  of  our  elder  prose-writers,  particularly  Jeremy  Taylor. 
He  liked  Richardson,  but  not  Fielding ;  nor  could  I  get  him 
to  enter  into  the  merits  of  Caleb  Williams}  In  short,  he  was 
profound  and  discriminating  with  respect  to  those  authors  whom 
he  liked,  and  where  he  gave  his  judgment  fair  play  ;  capricious, 

i  lie  had  no  idea  of  pictures,  of  Claude  or  Raphael,  and  at  this  time  I  had  as 
little  as  he.  He  sometimes  gives  a  striking  account  at  present  of  the  Cartoons  at 
risa,  by  Buffamalco  and  others  ;  of  one  in  particular  where  Death  is  seen  in  the 
air  brandishing  his  scythe,  and  the  great  and  mighty  of  the  earth  shudder  at  his 
approach,  while  the  beggars  and  the  wretched  kneel  to  him  as  their  deliverer.  He 
would  of  course  understand  so  broad  and  fine  a  moral  as  this  at  any  time. 


MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH   POETS       195 

perverse,  and  prejudiced  in  his  antipathies  and  distastes.  We 
loitered  on  the  "  ribbed  sea-sands,"  in  such  talk  as  this,  a  whole 
morning,  and  1  recollect  met  with  a  curious  sea-weed,  of  which 
John  Chester  told  us  the  country  name !  A  fisherman  gave 
Coleridge  an  account  of  a  boy  that  had  been  drowned  the  day  5 
before,  and  that  they  had  tried  to  save  him  at  the  risk  of  their 
own  lives.  He  said  "  he  did  not  know  how  it  was  that  they  ven- 
tured, but.  Sir,  we  have  a  nature  towards  one  another."  This 
expression,  Coleridge  remarked  to  me,  was  a  fine  illustration  of 
that  theory  of  disinterestedness  which  I  (in  common  with  Butler)  10 
had  adopted.  I  broached  to  him  an  argument  of  mine  to  prove 
that  likejiess  was  not  mere  association  of  ideas.  I  said  that  the 
mark  in  the  sand  put  one  in  mind  of  a  man's  foot,  not  because 
it  was  part  of  a  former  impression  of  a  man's  foot  (for  it  was 
quite  new)  but  because  it  was  like  the  shape  of  a  man's  foot.  15 
He  assented  to  the  justness  of  this  distinction  (which  I  have 
explained  at  length  elsewhere,  for  the  benefit  of  the  curious), 
and  John  Chester  listened  ;  not  from  any  interest  in  the  subject, 
but  because  he  was  astonished  that  I  should  be  able  to  suggest 
anything  to  Coleridge  that  he  did  not  already  know.  We  re-  20 
turned  on  the  third  morning,  and  Coleridge  remarked  the  silent 
cottage-smoke  curling  up  the  valleys  where,  a  few  evenings 
before,  we  had  seen  the  lights  gleaming  through  the  dark. 

In  a  day  or  two  after  we  arrived  at  Stowey,  we  set  out,  I  on 
my  return  home,  and  he  for  Germany.  It  was  a  Sunday  morn-  25 
ing,  and  he  was  to  preach  that  day  for  Dr.  Toulmin  of  Taunton. 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  prepared  anything  for  the  occasion  ?  He 
said  he  had  not  even  thought  of  the  text,  but  should  as  soon 
as  we  parted.  I  did  not  go  to  hear  him,  —  this  was  a  fault,  — 
but  we  met  in  the  evening  at  Bridgewater.  The  next  day  we  30 
had  a  long  day's  walk  to  Bristol,  and  sat  down,  I  recollect,  by 
a  well-side  on  the  road,  to  cool  ourselves  and  satisfy  our  thirst, 
when  Coleridge  repeated  to  me  some  descriptive  lines  of  his 
tragedy  of  Remorse,  which  I  must  say  became  his  mouth  and 


196  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

that  occasion  better  than  they,  some  years  after,  did  Mr.  EUiston's 
and  the  Drury-lane  boards,  — 

"  Oh  memory  !  shield  me  from  the  world's  poor  strife, 
And  give  those  scenes  thine  everlasting  life." 

5  I  saw  no  more  of  him  for  a  year  or  two,  during  which  period 
he  had  been  wandering  in  the  Hartz  Forest  in  Germany ;  and 
his  return  was  cometary,  meteorous,  unlike  his  setting  out.  It 
was  not  till  some  time  after  that  I  knew  his  friends  Lamb  and 
Southey.    The  last  always  appears  to  me  (as  I  first  saw  him) 

ID  with  a  common-place-book  under  his  arm,  and  the  first  with  a 
bon-nwt  in  his  mouth.  It  was  at  Godwin's  that  I  met  him  with 
Holcroft  and  Coleridge,  where  they  were  disputing  fiercely  which 
was  the  best  —  Man  as  he  zvas,  or  ma7i  as  he  is  to  be.  "  Give 
me,"  says  Lamb,  "  man  as  he  is  not  to  be."    This  saying  was 

15  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  between  us,  which  I  believe  still 
continues.  —  Enough  of  this  for  the  present. 

"  But  there  is  matter  for  another  rhyme, 
And  I  to  this  may  add  a  second  tale." 


MERRY  ENGLAND 

"  St.  George  for  merry  England  !  " 

This  old-fashioned  epithet  might  be  supposed  to  have  been 
bestowed  ironically,  or  on  the  old  principle  —  Ut  Incus  a  iiivi 
liicendo.  Yet  there  is  something  in  the  sound  that  hits  the 
fancy,  and  a  sort  of  truth  beyond  appearances.  To  be  sure,  it  5 
is  from  a  dull,  homely  ground  that  the  gleams  of  mirth  and 
jollity  break  out ;  but  the  streaks  of  light  that  tinge  the  evening 
sky  are  not  the  less  striking  on  that  account.  I'he  beams  of  the 
morning-sun  shining  on  the  lonely  glades,  or  through  the  idle 
branches  of  the  tangled  forest,  the  leisure,  the  freedom,  "  the  10 
pleasure  of  going  and  coming  v/ithout  knowing  where,"  the 
troops  of  wild  deer,  the  sports  of  the  chase,  and  other  rustic 
gambols,  were  sufficient  to  justify  the  well-known  appellation 
of  "  Merry  Sherwood,"  and  in  like  manner,  we  may  apply  the 
phrase  to  Merry  England.  The  smile  is  not  the  less  sincere  be-  1 5 
cause  it  does  not  always  play  upon  the  cheek  ;  and  the  jest  is 
not  the  less  welcome,  nor  the  laugh  less  hearty,  because  they 
happen  to  be  a  relief  from  care  or  leaden-eyed  melancholy.  The 
instances  are  the  more  precious  as  they  are  rare ;  and  we  look 
forward  to  them  with  the  greater  good  will,  or  back  upon  them  20 
with  the  greater  gratitude,  as  we  drain  the  last  drop  in  the  cup 
with  particular  relish.  If  not  always  gay  or  in  good  spirits,  we 
are  glad  when  any  occasion  draws  us  out  of  our  natural  gloom, 
and  disposed  to  make  the  most  of  it.  We  may  say  with  Sileiue 
in  the  play,  "  I  have  been  merry  ere  now,"  —  and  this  once  25 
was  to  serve  him  all  his  life ;  for  he  was  a  person  of  wonderful 
silence  and  gravity,  though  "  he  chirped  over  his  cups,"  and 
announced  with  characteristic  glee  that  "  there  were  pippins 

197 


198  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

and  cheese  to  come."  Silence  was  in  this  sense  a  merry  man, 
that  is,  he  would  be  merry  if  he  could,  and  a  very  great  econ- 
omy of  wit,  like  a  very  slender  fare,  was  a  banquet  to  him, 
from  the  simplicity  of  his  taste  and  habits.    "  Continents,"  says 

5  Hobbes,  "  have  most  of  what  they  contain  " —  and  in  this  view 
it  may  be  contended  that  the  English  are  the  merriest  people  in 
the  world,  since  they  only  show  it  on  high-days  and  holidays. 
They  are  then  like  a  school-boy  let  loose  from  school,  or  like  a 
dog  that  has  slipped  his  collar.     They  are  not  gay  like  the 

10  French,  who  are  one  eternal  smile  of  self-complacency,  tor- 
tured into  affectation,  or  spun  out  into  languid  indifference,  nor 
are  they  voluptuous  and  immersed  in  sensual  indolence,  like  the 
Italians;  but  they  have  that  sort  of  intermittent,  fitful,  irregular 
gaiety,  which  is  neither  worn  out  by  habit,  nor  deadened  by 

15  passion,  but  is  sought  with  avidity  as  it  takes  the  mind  by  sur- 
prise, is  startled  by  a  sense  of  oddity  and  incongruity,  indulges 
its  wayward  humours  or  lively  impulses,  with  perfect  freedom 
and  lightness  of  heart,  and  seizes  occasion  by  the  forelock,  that 
it  may  return  to  serious  business  with  more  cheerfulness,  and 

20  have  something  to  beguile  the  hours  of  thought  or  sadness.  I 
do  not  see  how  there  can  be  high  spirits  without  low  ones ;  and 
every  thing  has  its  price  according  to  circumstances.  Perhaps 
we  have  to  pay  a  heavier  tax  on  pleasure,  than  some  others : 
what  skills  it,  so  long  as  our  good  spirits  and  good  hearts  enable 

25  us  to  bear  it? 

"They"  (the  English),  says  Froissart,  "amused  themselves 
sadly  after  the  fashion  of  their  country"  —  ih  se  rejotmsoient 
tristenient  seloji  la  coutume  de  leiir  pays.  They  have  indeed  a  way 
of  their  own.  Their  mirth  is  a  relaxation  from  gravity,  a  challenge 

30  to  dull  care  to  be  gone  ;  and  one  is  not  always  clear  at  first, 
whether  the  appeal  is  successful.  The  cloud  may  still  hang  on 
the  brow ;  the  ice  may  not  thaw  at  once.  To  help  them  out 
in  their  new  character  is  an  act  of  charity.  Any  thing  short  of 
hanging  or  drowning  is  something  to  begin  with.    They  do  not 


MERRY  ENGLAND  1 99 

enter  into  their  amusements  the  less  doggedly  because  they 
may  plague  others.    They  like  a  thing  the  better  for  hitting 
them  a  rap  on  the  knuckles,  for  making  their  blood  tingle. 
They  do  not  dance  or  sing,  but  they  make  good  cheer  —  "  eat, 
drink,  and  are  merry."    No  people  are  fonder  of  field-sports,  5 
Christmas  gambols,  or  practical  jests.   Blindman's-buff,  hunt-the- 
slipper,  hot-cockles,  and  snap-dragon,  are  all  approved  English 
games,  full  of  laughable  surprises  and  "  hair-breadth  'scapes," 
and  serve  to  amuse  the  winter  fire-side  after  the  roast-beef  and 
plum-pudding,  the  spiced  ale  and  roasted  crab,  thrown  (hissing-  10 
hot)  into  the  foaming  tankard.    Punch  (not  the  liquor,  but  the 
puppet)  is  not,  I  fear,  of  English  origin  ;  but  there  is  no  place, 
I  take  it,  where  he  finds  himself  more  at  home  or  meets  a  more 
joyous  welcome,  where  he  collects  greater  crowds  at  the  corners 
of  streets,  where  he  opens  the  eyes  or  distends  the  cheeks  15 
wider,  or  where  the  bangs  and  blows,  the  uncouth  gestures, 
ridiculous  anger  and  screaming  voice  of  the  chief  performer 
excite  more  boundless  merriment  or  louder  bursts  of  laughter 
among  all  ranks  and  sorts  of  people.    An  English  theatre  is  the 
very  throne  of  pantomime  ;  nor  do  I  believe  that  the  gallery  and  20 
boxes  of  Drury-lane  or  Covent-garden  filled  on  the  proper  occa- 
sion with  holiday  folks  (big  or  little)  yield  the  palm  for  undis- 
guised,  tumultuous,  inextinguishable   laughter   to  any  spot  in 
Europe.    I  do  not  speak  of  the  refinement  of  the  mirth  (this 
is  no  fastidious  speculation)  but  of  its  cordiality,  on  the  return  25 
of  these  long  looked-for  and  licensed  periods ;  and  I  may  add 
here,  by  way  of  illustration,  that  the  English  common  people 
are  a  sort  of  grown  children,  spoiled  and  sulky  perhaps,  but 
full  of  glee  and  merriment,  when  their  attention  is  drawn  off  by 
some  sudden  and  striking  object.   The  May-pole  is  almost  gone  30 
out  of  fashion  among  us :   but  May-day,  besides  its  flowering 
hawthorns  and   its  pearly  dews,  has  still   its  boasted  exhibi- 
tion of  painted  chimney-sweepers  and  their  Jack-o'-the-Green, 
whose  tawdry  finery,  bedizened  faces,  unwonted  gestures,  and 


200  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

short-lived  pleasures  call  forth  good-humoured  smiles  and  looks 
of  sympathy  in  the  spectators.  There  is  no  place  where  trap-ball, 
fives,  prison-base,  foot-ball,  quoits,  bowls  are  better  understood 
or  more  successfully  practised  ;  and  the  very  names  of  a  cricket 
5  bat  and  ball  make  English  fingers  tingle.  What  happy  days  must 
"  Long  Robinson  "  have  passed  in  getting  ready  his  wickets  and 
mending  his  bats,  who  when  two  of  the  fingers  of  his  right-hand 
were  struck  off  by  the  violence  of  a  ball,  had  a  screw  fastened 
to  it  to  hold  the  bat,  and  with  the  other  hand  still  sent  the  ball 

lo  thundering  against  the  boards  that  bounded  Old  Lord's  cricket- 
groimd !  What  delightful  hours  must  have  been  his  in  looking 
forward  to  the  matches  that  were  to  come,  in  recounting  the 
feats  he  had  performed  in  those  that  were  past !  I  have  myself 
whiled  away  whole  mornings  in  seeing  him  strike  the  ball  (like 

15  a  countryman  mowing  with  a  scythe)  to  the  farthest  extremity 
of  the  smooth,  level,  sun-burnt  ground,  and  with  long,  awkward 
strides  count  the  notches  that  made  victory  sure !  Then  again, 
cudgel-playing,  quarter-staff,  bull  and  badger-baiting,  cock-fight- 
ing are  almost  the  peculiar  diversions  of  this  island,  and  often 

20  objected  to  us  as  barbarous  and  cruel ;  horse-racing  is  the  delight 
and  the  ruin  of  numbers ;  and  the  noble  science  of  boxing  is 
all  our  own.  Foreigners  can  scarcely  understand  how  we  can 
squeeze  pleasure  out  of  this  pastime ;  the  luxury  of  hard  blows 
given  or  received;   the  joy  of  the  ring;   nor  the  perseverance 

25  of  the  combatants.^    The  English  also  excel,  or  are  not  excelled 

1  "  The  gentle  and  free  passage  of  arms  at  Ashby  "  was,  we  are  told,  so  called 
by  the  Chroniclers  of  the  time,  on  account  of  the  feats  of  horsemanship  and  the 
quantity  of  knightly  blood  that  was  shed.  This  last  circumstance  was  perhaps 
necessary  to  qualify  it  with  the  epithet  of  "  gentle,"  in  the  opinion  of  some  of 
these  historians.  1  think  the  reason  why  the  English  are  the  bravest  nation  on 
earth  is,  that  the  thought  of  blood  or  a  delight  in  cruelty  is  not  the  chief  excite- 
ment with  them.  Where  it  is,  there  is  necessarily  a  reaction:  for  though  it  may 
add  to  our  eagerness  and  savage  ferocity  in  inflicting  wounds,  it  does  not  enable 
us  to  endure  them  with  greater  patience.  The  English  are  led  to  the  attack  or 
sustain  it  equally  well,  because  they  fight  as  they  box,  not  out  of  malice,  but  to 
shovi  pluck  and  manhood.  Fair  play  ami  old  England  for  ever  !  This  is  the  only 
bravery  that  will  stand  the  test.  There  is  the  same  determination  and  spirit  shown 


MERRY  ENGLAND  20I 

in  wiring  a  hare,  in  stalking  a  deer,  in  shooting,  fishing,  and 
hunting.  England  to  this  day  boasts  her  Robin  Hood  and  his 
merry  men,  that  stout  archer  and  outlaw,  and  patron-saint  of 
the  sporting-calendar.  What  a  cheerful  sound  is  that  of  the 
hunters,  issuing  from  the  autumnal  wood  and  sweeping  over  5 
hill  and  dale  I 

—  "A  cry  more  tuneable 
Was  never  halloo'd  to  by  hound  or  horn." 

What  sparkling  richness  in  the  scarlet  coats  of  the  riders,  what 
a  glittering  confusion  in  the  pack,  what  spirit  in  the  horses,  what  10 
eagerness  in  the  followers  on  foot,  as  they  disperse  over  the 
plain,  or  force  their  way  over  hedge  and  ditch !    Surely,  the 
coloured  prints  and  pictures  of  these,  hung  up  in  gentlemen's 
halls  and  village  alehouses,  however  humble  as  works  of  art, 
have  more  life  and  health  and  spirit  in  them,  and  mark  the  pith  15 
and  nerve  of  the  national  character  more  creditably  than  the 
mawkish,  sentimental,  affected  designs  of  Theseus  and  Pirithous, 
and  ^neas  and  Dido,  pasted  on  foreign  salo/is  a  mafiger,  and 
the  interior  of  countr^'-houses.    If  our  tastes  are  not  epic,  nor 
our  pretensions  lofty,  they  are  simple  and  our  own ;  and  we  20 
may  possibly  enjoy  our  native  rural  sports,  and  the  rude  remem- 
brances of  them,  with  the  truer  relish  on  this  account,  that  they 
are  suited  to  us  and  we  to  them.    The  English  nation,  too,  are 
naturally  "  brothers  of  the  angle."    This  pursuit  implies  just  that 
mixture  of  patience  and  pastime,  of  vacancy  and  thoughtfulness,  25 
of  idleness  and  business,  of  pleasure  and  of  pain,  which  is  suited 

in  resistance  as  in  attack  ;  but  not  the  same  pleasure  in  getting  a  cut  with  a  sabre 
as  in  giving  one.  There  is,  therefore,  always  a  certain  degree  of  effeminacy  mixed 
up  with  any  approach  to  cruelty,  since  both  have  their  source  in  the  same  princi- 
ple, viz.  an  over-valuing  of  pain  {a).  This  was  the  reason  the  French  (having  the 
best  cause  and  the  best  general  in  the  world)  ran  away  at  Waterloo,  because  they 
were  inflamed,  furious,  drunk  with  the  blood  of  their  enemies,  but  when  it  came 
to  their  turn,  wanting  the  same  stimulus,  they  were  panic-struck,  and  their  hearts 
and  their  senses  failed  them  all  at  once. 

((/)  Vanity  is  the  same  half-witted  principle,  compared  with  pride.  It  leaves 
men  in  the  lurch  when  it  is  most  needed  ;  is  mortified  at  being  reduced  to  stand 
on  the  defensive,  and  relinquishes  the  field  to  its  more  surly  antagonist. 


202  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

to  the  genius  of  an  Englishman,  and  as  I  suspect,  of  no  one  else 
in  the  same  degree.  He  is  eminently  gifted  to  stand  in  the  sit- 
uation assigned  by  Dr.  Johnson  to  the  angler,  "  at  one  end  of  a 
rod  with  a  worm  at  the  other."  I  should  suppose  no  other  lan- 
5  guage  can  show  such  a  book  as  an  often-mentioned  one,  Walton's 
Complete  Angler,  —  so  full  of  tia'ivete,  of  unaffected  sprightliness, 
of  busy  trifling,  of  dainty  songs,  of  refreshing  brooks,  of  shady 
arbours,  of  happy  thoughts  and  of  the  herb  called  Heart  V  Ease  ! 
Some  persons  can  see  neither  the  wit  nor  wisdom  of  this  genuine 

lo  volume,  as  if  a  book  as  well  as  a  man  might  not  have  a  personal 
character  belonging  to  it,  amiable,  venerable  from  the  spirit  of 
joy  and  thorough  goodness  it  manifests,  independently  of  acute 
remarks  or  scientific  discoveries  :  others  object  to  the  cruelty  of 
Walton's  theory  and  practice  of  trout-fishing  —  for  my  part,  I 

15  should  as  soon  charge  an  infant  with  cruelty  for  killing  a  fly, 
and  I  feel  the  same  sort  of  pleasure  in  reading  his  book  as  I 
should  have  done  in  the  company  of  this  happy,  child-like  old 
man,  watching  his  ruddy  cheek,  his  laughing  eye,  the  kindness 
of  his  heart,  and  the  dexterity  of  his  hand  in  seizing  his  finny 

20  prey !  It  must  be  confessed,  there  is  often  an  odd  sort  of  mate- 
riality in  English  sports  and  recreations.  I  have  known  several 
persons,  whose  existence  consisted  wholly  in  manual  exercises, 
and  all  whose  enjoyments  lay  at  their  finger-ends.  Their  greatest 
happiness  was  in  cutting  a  stick,  in  mending  a  cabbage-net,  in 

25  digging  a  hole  in  the  ground,  in  hitting  a  mark,  turning  a  lathe, 
or  in  something  else  of  the  same  kind,  at  which  they  had  a  cer- 
tain knack.  Well  is  it  when  we  can  amuse  ourselves  with  such 
trifles  and  without  injury  to  others !  This  class  of  character, 
which  the   Spectator  has  immortalised  in  the  person  of  Will 

30  Wimble,  is  still  common  among  younger  brothers  and  retired 
gentlemen  of  small  incomes  in  town  or  country.  The  Cockney 
character  is  of  our  English  growth,  as  this  intimates  a  feverish 
fidgety  delight  in  rural  sights  and  sounds,  and  a  longing  wish, 
after  the  turmoil  and  confinement  of  a  city-life,  to  transport 


MERRY  ENGLAND  203 

one's-self  to  the  freedom  and  breathing  sweetness  of  a  country 
retreat.  London  is  half  suburbs.  The  suburbs  of  Paris  are  a 
desert,  and  you  see  nothing  but  crazy  wind-mills,  stone-walls,  and 
a  few  straggling  visitants  in  spots  where  in  England  you  would 
find  a  thousand  villas,  a  thousand  terraces  crowned  with  their  5 
own  delights,  or  be  stunned  with  the  noise  of  bowling-greens  and 
tea-gardens,  or  stifled  with  the  fumes  of  tobacco  mingling  with 
fragrant  shrubs,  or  the  clouds  of  dust  raised  by  half  the  popula- 
tion of  the  metropolis  panting  and  toiling  in  search  of  a  mouth- 
ful of  fresh  air.  The  Parisian  is,  perhaps,  as  well  (or  better)  10 
contented  with  himself  wherever  he  is,  stewed  in  his  shop  or  his 
garret ;  the  Londoner  is  miserable  in  these  circumstances,  and 
glad  to  escape  from  them.^  Let  no  one  object  to  the  gloomy 
appearance  of  a  London  Sunday,  compared  with  a  Parisian  one. 
It  is  a  part  of  our  politics  and  our  religion  :  we  would  not  have  1 5 
James  the  First's  Book  of  Sports  thrust  down  our  throats :  and 
besides,  it  is  a  part  of  our  character  to  do  one  thing  at  a  time, 
and  not  to  be  dancing  a  jig  and  on  our  knees  in  the  same  breath. 
It  is  true  the  Englishman  spends  his  Sunday  evening  at  the  ale- 
house —  20 

"And  e'en  on  Sunday 

Drank  with  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday"  — 

but  he  only  unbends  and  waxes  mellow  by  degrees,  and  sits 
soaking  till  he  can  neither  sit,  stand,  nor  go :  it  is  his  vice,  and 
a  beastly  one  it  is,  but  not  a  proof  of  any  inherent  distaste  to  25 
mirth  or  good-fellowship.  Neither  can  foreigners  throw  the  car- 
nival in  our  teeth  with  any  effect :  those  who  have  seen  it  (at 
Florence,  for  example,)  will  say  that  it  is  duller  than  any  thing 
in  England.  Our  Bartholomew-Fair  is  Queen  Mab  herself  to  it ! 
What  can  be  duller  than  a  parcel  of  masks  moving  about  the  30 
streets  and  looking  as  grave  and  monotonous  as  possible  from 
day  to  day,  and  with  the  same  lifeless  formality  in  their  limbs 

1  The  English  are  fond  of  change  of  scene  ;  the  French  of  change  of  posture ; 
the  Italians  like  to  sit  still  and  do  nothing. 


204  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

and  gestures  as  in  their  features  ?  One  might  as  well  expect 
variety  and  spirit  in  a  procession  of  waxwork.  We  must  be  hard 
run  indeed,  when  we  have  recourse  to  a  pasteboard  proxy  to  set 
off  our  mirth :  a  mask  may  be  a  very  good  cover  for  licentious- 

5  ness  (though  of  that  I  saw  no  signs),  but  is  a  very  bad  exponent 
of  wit  and  humour.  I  should  suppose  there  is  more  drollery  and 
unction  in  the  caricatures  in  Gilray's  shop-window,  than  in  all 
the  masks  in  Italy,  without  exception.^ 

The  humour  of  English  writing  and  description  has  often  been 

10  wondered  at ;  and  it  flows  from  the  same  source  as  the  merry 
traits  of  our  character.  A  degree  of  barbarism  and  rusticity 
seems  necessary  to  the  perfection  of  humour.  The  droll  and 
laughable  depend  on  peculiarity  and  incongruity  of  character. 
But  with  the  progress  of  refinement,  the  peculiarities  of  individ- 

1 5  uals  and  of  classes  wear  out  or  lose  their  sharp,  abrupt  edges ; 
nay,  a  certain  slowness  and  dulness  of  understanding  is  required 
to  be  struck  with  odd  and  unaccountable  appearances,  for  which 
a  greater  facility  of  apprehension  can  sooner  assign  an  explana- 
tion that  breaks  the  force  of  the  seeming  absurdity,  and  to 

20  which  a  wider  scope  of  imagination  is  more  easily  reconciled. 
Clowns  and  country  people  are  more  amused,  are  more  disposed 
to  laugh  and  make  sport  of  the  dress  of  strangers,  because  from 
their  ignorance  the  surprise  is  greater,  and  they  cannot  conceive 
any  thing  to  be  natural  or  proper  to  which  they  are  unused. 

25  Without  a  given  portion  of  hardness  and  repulsiveness  of  feeling 
the  ludicrous  cannot  well  exist.  Wonder,  and  curiosity,  the  attri- 
butes of  inexperience,  enter  greatly  into  its  composition.  Now 
it  appears  to  me  that  the  English  are  (or  were)  just  at  that 
mean  point  between  intelligence  and  obtuseness,  which  must 

30  produce   the   most   abundant   and    happiest   crop    of    humour. 

'  Bells  are  peculiar  to  England.  They  jingle  them  in  Italy  during  the  carnival 
as  boys  do  with  us  at  Shrovetide  ;  but  they  have  no  notion  of  ringing  them.  The 
sound  of  village  bells  never  cheers  you  in  travelling,  nor  have  you  the  lute  or 
cittern  in  their  stead.  Yet  the  expression  of  "  Merry  Bells"  is  a  favourite,  and 
not  one  of  the  least  appropriate  in  our  language. 


MERRY  ENGLAND  205 

Absurdity  and  singularity  glide  over  the  French  mind  with(jul 
jarring  or  jostling  with  it ;  or  they  evaporate  in  levity  :  — •  with 
the  Italians  they  are  lost  in  indolence  or  pleasure.  The  ludicrous 
takes  hold  of  the  English  imagination,  and  clings  to  it  with  all 
its  ramifications.  We  resent  any  difference  or  peculiarity  of  5 
appearance  at  first,  and  yet,  having  not  much  malice  at  our 
hearts,  we  are  glad  to  turn  it  into  a  jest  —  we  are  liable  to  be 
offended,  and  as  willing  to  be  pleased — -struck  with  oddity 
from  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  it,  we  wonder  and  burst  out 
a  laughing  at  the  eccentricity  of  others,  while  we  follow  our  own  10 
bent  from  wilfulness  or  simplicity,  and  thus  afford  them,  in  our 
turn,  matter  for  the  indulgence  of  the  comic  vein.  It  is  possible 
that  a  greater  refinement  of  manners  may  give  birth  to  finer 
distinctions  of  satire  and  a  nicer  tact  for  the  ridiculous  :  but  our 
insular  situation  and  character  are,  I  should  say,  most  likely  to  15 
foster,  as  they  have  in  fact  fostered,  the  greatest  quantity  of 
natural  and  striking  humour,  in  spite  of  our  plodding  tenacious- 
ness,  and  want  both  of  gaiety  and  quickness  of  perception.  A 
set  of  raw  recruits  with  their  awkward  movements  and  unbend- 
ing joints  are  laughable  enough :  but  they  cease  to  be  so,  when  20 
they  have  once  been  drilled  into  discipline  and  uniformity.  So 
it  is  with  nations  that  lose  their  angular  points  and  grotesque 
qualities  with  education  and  intercourse :  but  it  is  in  a  mixed 
state  of  manners  that  comic  humour  chiefly  flourishes,  for,  in 
order  that  the  drollery  may  not  be  lost,  we  must  have  spectators  25 
of  the  passing  scene  who  are  able  to  appreciate  and  embody  its 
most  remarkable  features,  — ■  wits  as  well  as  butts  for  ridicule. 
I  shall  mention  two  names  in  this  department  which  may  serve 
to  redeem  the  national  character  from  absolute  dulness  and 
solemn  pretence,  —  Fielding  and  Hogarth.  These  were  thorough  30 
specimens  of  true  English  humour ;  yet  both  were  grave  men. 
In  reality,  too  high  a  pitch  of  animal  spirits  runs  away  with  the 
imagination,  instead  of  helping  it  to  reach  the  goal ;  is  inclined 
to  take  the  jest  for  granted  when  it  ought  to  work  it  out  with 


2o6  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

patient  and  marked  touches,  and  it  ends  in  vapid  flippancy  and 
impertinence.  Among  our  neighbours  on  the  Continent,  Moliere 
and  Rabelais  carried  the  freedom  of  wit  and  humour  to  an 
almost  incredible  height;  but  they  rather  belonged  to  the  old 
5  French  school,  and  even  approach  and  exceed  the  English  licence 
and  extravagance  of  conception.  I  do  not  consider  Congreve's 
wit  (though  it  belongs  to  us)  as  coming  under  the  article  here 
spoken  of  ;  for  his  genius  is  any  thing  but  fuerry.  Lord  Byron 
was  in  the  habit  of  railing  at  the  spirit  of  our  good  old  comedy, 

lo  and  of  abusing  Shakspeare's  Clowns  and  Fools,  which  he  said 
the  refinement  of  the  French  and  Italian  stage  would  not  endure 
and  which  only  our  grossness  and  puerile  taste  could  tolerate. 
In  this  I  agree  with  him  ;  and  it  is  pat  to  my  purpose.  I  flatter 
myself  that  we  are  almost  the  only  people  who  understand  and 

15  relish  nonsense.  We  are  not  "  merry  and  wise,"  but  indulge  our 
mirth  to  excess  and  folly.  When  we  trifle,  we  trifle  in  good 
earnest ;  and  having  once  relaxed  our  hold  of  the  helm,  drift 
idly  down  the  stream,  and  delighted  with  the  change,  are  tossed 
about  "  by  every  little  breath  "  of  whim  or  caprice, 

20  "  That  under  Heaven  is  blown." 

All  we  then  want  is  to  proclaim  a  truce  with  reason,  and  to  be 
pleased  with  as  little  expense  of  thought  or  pretension  to  wisdom 
as  possible.  This  licensed  fooling  is  carried  to  its  very  utmost 
length  in  Shakspeare,  and  in  some  other  of  our  elder  dramatists, 

25  without,  perhaps,  sufficient  warrant  or  the  same  excuse.  Noth- 
ing can  justify  this  extreme  relaxation  but  extreme  tension. 
Shakspeare's  trifling  does  indeed  tread  upon  the  very  borders 
of  vacancy  :  his  meaning  often  hangs  by  the  very  slenderest 
threads.    For  this  he  might  be  blamed  if  it  did  not  take  away 

30  our  breath  to  follow  his  eagle  flights,  or  if  he  did  not  at  other 
times  make  the  cordage  of  our  hearts  crack.  After  our  heads 
ache  with  thinking,  it  is  fair  to  play  the  fool.  The  clowns  were 
as  proper  an  appendage  to  the  gravity  of  our  antique  literature, 


MERRY  ENGLAND  20/ 

as  fools  and  dwarfs  were  to  the  stately  dignity  of  courts  and 
noble  houses  in  former  days.  Of  all  people,  they  have  the  best 
right  to  claim  a  total  exemption  from  rules  and  rigid  formality, 
who,  when  they  have  any  thing  of  importance  to  do,  set  about 
it  with  the  greatest  earnestness  and  perseverance,  and  are  gener-  5 
ally  grave  and  sober  to  a  proverb.^  Poor  Swift,  who  wrote 
more  idle  or  twnsense  verses  than  any  man,  was  the  severest  of 
moralists ;  and  his  feelings  and  observations  morbidly  acute. 
Did  not  Lord  Byron  himself  follow  up  his  Childe  Harold  with 
his  Don  Juan  ?  —  not  that  I  insist  on  what  he  did  as  any  illustra-  10 
tion  of  the  English  character.  He  was  one  of  the  English 
Nobility,  not  one  of  the  English  People  ;  and  his  occasional  ease 
and  familiarity  were  in  my  mind  equally  constrained  and  affected, 
whether  in  relation  to  the  pretensions  of  his  rank  or  the  efforts 
of  his  genius.  iS 

They  ask  you  in  France,  how  you  pass  your  time  in  England 
without  amusements ;  and  can  with  difficulty  believe  that  there  are 
theatres  in  London,  still  less  that  they  are  larger  and  handsomer 
than  those  in  Paris.  That  we  should  have  comic  actors,  "  they 
own,  surprises  them."  They  judge  of  the  English  character  20 
in  the  lump  as  one  great  jolter-head,  containing  all  the  stu- 
pidity of  the  country,  as  the  large  ball  at  the  top  of  the  Dis- 
pensary in  Warwick-lane,  from  its  resemblance  to  a  gilded  pill, 
has  been  made  to  represent  the  whole  pharmacopoeia  and  pro- 
fessional quackery  of  the  kingdom.  They  have  no  more  notion,  25 
for  instance,  how  we  should  have  such  an  actor  as  Liston  on  our 
stage,  than  if  we  were  to  tell  them  we  have  parts  performed  by 
a  sea-otter ;  nor  if  they  were  to  see  him,  would  they  be  much 
the  wiser,  or  know  what  to  think  of  his  unaccountable  twitches 
of  countenance  or  non-descript  gestures,  of  his  teeth  chattering  30 
in  his  head,  his  eyes  that  seem  dropping  from  their  sockets,  his 
nose  that  is  tickled  by  a  jest  as  by  a  feather,  and  shining  with 

1  The  strict  formality  of  French  serious  writing  is  resorted  to  as  a  foil  to  the 
natural  levity  of  their  character. 


2o8  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

self-complacency  as  if  oiled,  his  ignorant  conceit,  his  gaping 
stupor,  his  lumpish  vivacity  in  Lubin  Log  or  Tony  Lumpkin ; 
for  as  our  rivals  do  not  wind  up  the  machine  to  such  a  deter- 
mined intensity  of  purpose,  neither  have  they  any  idea  of  its 
5 "running  down  to  such  degrees  of  imbecility  and  folly,  or  com- 
ing to  an  absolute  stand-still  and  lack  of  meaning,  nor  can  they 
enter  into  or  be  amused  with  the  contrast.  No  people  ever 
laugh  heartily  who  can  give  a  reason  for  their  doing  so :  and  I 
believe  the  English  in  general  are  not  yet  in  this  predicament. 

10  They  are  not  metaphysical,  but  very  much  in  a  state  of  nature ; 
and  this  is  one  main  ground  why  I  give  them  credit  for  being 
merry,  notwithstanding  appearances.  Their  mirth  is  not  the 
mirth  of  vice  or  desperation,  but  of  innocence  and  a  native 
wildness.    They  do  not  cavil  or  boggle  at  niceties,  or  merely 

1 5  come  to  the  edge  of  a  joke,  but  break  their  necks  over  it  with 
a  wanton  "  Here  goes,"  where  others  make  a  pirouette  and 
stand  upon  decorum.  The  French  cannot,  however,  be  per- 
suaded of  the  excellence  of  our  comic  stage,  nor  of  the  store 
we  set  by  it.    When  they  ask  what  amusements  we  have,  it  is 

2o  plain  they  can  never  have  heard  of  Mrs.  Jordan,  nor  King,  nor 
Bannister,  nor  Suett,  nor  Munden,  nor  Lewis,  nor  little  Simmons, 
nor  Dodd,  and  Parsons,  and  Emery,  and  Miss  Pope,  and  Miss 
Farren,  and  all  those  who  even  in  my  time  have  gladdened  a 
nation  and  "  made  life's  business  like  a  summer's  dream."   Can 

25  I  think  of  them,  and  of  their  names  that  glittered  in  the  play- 
bills when  I  was  young,  exciting  all  the  flutter  of  hope  and 
expectation  of  seeing  them  in  their  favourite  parts  of  Nell,  or 
Little  Pickle,  or  Touchstone,  or  Sir  Peter  Teazle,  or  Lenitive  in 
the  Prize,  or  Lingo,  or  Crabtree,  or  Nipperkin,  or  old  Dorn- 

30  ton,  or  Ranger,  or  the  Copper  Captain,  or  Lord  Sands,  or  Filch, 
or  Moses,  or  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek,  or  Acres,  or  Elbow,  or 
Hodge,  or  Flora,  or  the  Duenna,  or  Lady  Teazle,  or  Lady 
Grace,  or  of   the  gaiety   that  sparkled  in  all  eyes,  and  the 


MERRY  ENGLAND  209 

delight  that  overflowed  all  hearts,  as  they  glanced  before  us  in 

these  parts,  • 

"  Throwing  a  gaudy  shadow  upon  Hfe,"  — 

and  not  feel  my  heart  yearn  within  me,  or  couple  the  thoughts 
of  England  and  the  spleen  together  ?  Our  cloud  has  at  least  its  5 
'  rainbow  tints :  ours  is  not  one  long  polar  night  of  cold  and  dul- 
ness,  but  we  have  the  gleaming  lights  of  fancy  to  amuse  us,  the 
household  fires  of  truth  and  genius  to  warm  us.  We  can  go  to 
a  play  and  see  Liston ;  or  stay  at  home  and  read  Roderick 
Random ;  or  have  Hogarth's  prints  of  Marriage  a  la  Mode  10 
hanging  round  our  room.  "  Tut !  there's  livers  even  in  Eng- 
land," as  well  as  "  out  of  it."  We  are  not  quite  the  forlorn  hope 
of  humanity,  the  last  of  nations.  The  French  look  at  us  across 
the  Channel,  and  seeing  nothing  but  water  and  a  cloudy  mist, 
think  that  this  is  England.  1 5 

"What's  our  Britain 


In  the  world's  volume  ?    In  a  great  pool  a  swan's  nest." 

If  they  have  any  farther  idea  of  us,  it  is  of  George  III.  and  our 
Jack  tars,  the  House  of  Lords  and  House  of  Commons,  and 
this  is  no  great  addition  to  us.    To  go  beyond  this,  to  talk  of  20 
arts  and  elegances  as  having  taken  up  their  abode  here,  or  to 
say  that  Mrs.  Abington  was  equal  to  Mademoiselle  Mars,  and 
that  we  at  one  time  got  up  the  School  for  Scandal,  as  they  do 
the  Misanthrope,  is  to  persuade  them  that  Iceland  is  a  pleasant 
summer-retreat,  or  to  recommend  the  whale-fishery  as  a  clas-  25 
sical  amusement.    The  French  are  the  cockneys  of  Europe,  and 
have  no  idea  how  any  one  can  exist  out  of  Paris,  or  be  alive 
without  incessant  grimace  and  jabber.    Yet  what  imports  it  ? 
What !  though  the  joyous  train  I  have  just  enumerated  were, 
perhaps,  never  heard  of  in  the  precincts  of  the  Palais-Royal,  is  30 
it  not  enough  that  they  gave  pleasure  where  they  were,  to  those 
who  saw  and  heard  them  ?   Must  our  laugh,  to  be  sincere,  have 


2IO  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

its  echo  on  the  other  side  of  the  water?  Had  not  the  French 
their  favourites  and  their  enjoyments  at  the  time,  that  we  knew 
nothing  of  ?  Why  then  should  we  not  have  ours  (and  boast  of 
them  too)  without  their  leave  ?  A  monopoly  of  self-conceit  is 
5  not  a  monopoly  of  all  other  advantages.  The  English,  when 
they  go  abroad,  do  not  take  away  the  prejudice  against  them 
by  their  looks.  We  seem  duller  and  sadder  than  we  are.  As  I 
write  this,  I  am  sitting  in  the  open  air  in  a  beautiful  valley  near 
Vevey :  Clarens  is  on  my  left,  the  Dent  de  Jamant  is  behind 
lo  me,  the  rocks  of  Meillerie  opposite :  under  my  feet  is  a  green 
bank,  enamelled  with  white  and  purple  flowers,  in  which  a  dew- 
drop  here  and  there  still  glitters  with  pearly  light  — 

"  And  gaudy  butterflies  flutter  around." 

Intent  upon  the  scene  and  upon  the  thoughts  that  stir  within 

15  me,  I  conjure  up  the  cheerful  passages  of  my  life,  and  a  crowd 
of  happy  imdl^es  appear  before  me.  No  one  would  see  it  in  my 
looks  —  my  eyes  grow  dull  and  fixed,  and  I  seem  rooted  to  the 
spot,  as  all  this  phantasmagoria  passes  in  review  before  me, 
glancing  a  reflex  lustre  on  the  face  of  the  world  and  nature. 

20  But  the  traces  of  pleasure,  in  my  case,  sink  into  an  absorbent 
ground  of  thoughtful  melancholy,  and  require  to  be  brought 
out  by  time  and  circumstances,  or  (as  the  critics  tell  you)  by 
the  varnish  of  style  ! 

The  comfort,  on  which  the  English  lay  so  much  stress,  is  of  the 

25  same  character,  and  arises  from  the  same  source  as  their  mirth. 
Both  exist  by  contrast  and  a  sort  of  contradiction.  The  English 
are  certainly  the  most  uncomfortable  of  all  people  in  them- 
selves, and  therefore  it  is  that  they  stand  in  need  of  every  kind  of 
comfort  and  accommodation.    The  least  thing  puts  them  out  of 

30  their  way,  and  therefore  every  thing  must  be  in  its  place.  They 
are  mightily  offended  at  disagreeable  tastes  and  smells,  and 
therefore  they  exact  the  utmost  neatness  and  nicety.  They  are 
sensible  of  heat  and  cold,  and  therefore  they  cannot  exist,  unless 


MERRY  ENGLAND  211 

every  thing  is  snug  and  warm,  or  else  open  and  airy,  where  they 
are.  They  must  have  "  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot." 
They  are  afraid  of  interruption  and  intrusion,  and  therefore 
they  shut  themselves  up  in  in-door  enjoyments  and  by  their 
own  firesides.  It  is  not  that  they  require  luxuries  (for  that  im-  5 
plies  a  high  degree  of  epicurean  indulgence  and  gratification), 
but  they  cannot  do  without  their  cofufofts ;  that  is,  whatever 
tends  to  supply  their  physical  wants,  and  ward  off  physical  pain 
and  annoyance.  As  they  have  not  a  fund  of  animal  spirits  and 
enjoyments  in  themselves,  they  cling  to  external  objects  for  10 
support,  and  derive  solid  satisfaction  from  the  ideas  of  order, 
cleanliness,  plenty,  property,  and  domestic  quiet,  as  they  seek 
for  diversion  from  odd  accidents  and  grotesque  surprises,  and 
have  the  highest  possible  relish  not  of  voluptuous  softness,  but 
of  hard  knocks  and  dry  blows,  as  one  means  of  ascertaining  15 
their  personal  identity. 


OF  PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO 
HAVE  SEEN 

"Come  like  shadows  —  so  depart." 

B it  was,  I  think,  who  suggested  this  subject,  as  well  as 

the  defence  of  Guy  Faux,  which  I  urged  him  to  execute.    As, 
however,  he  would  undertake  neither,  I  suppose  I  must  do  both 
5  —  a  task  for  which  he  would  have  been  much  fitter,  no  less 
from  the  temerity  than  the  felicity  of  his  pen  — 

"  Never  so  sure  our  rapture  to  create 
As  when  it  touch'd  the  brink  of  all  we  hate." 

Compared  with  him,  I  shall,  I  fear,  make  but  a  common-place 

ID  piece  of  business  of  it ;  but  I  should  be  loth  the  idea  was  entirely 
lost,  and  besides,  I  may  avail  myself  of  some  hints  of  his  in  the 
progress  of  it.  I  am  sometimes,  I  suspect,  a  better  reporter  of 
the  ideas  of  other  people  than  expounder  of  my  own.  I  pursue 
the  one  too  far  into  paradox  or  mysticism ;  the  others  I  am 

15  not  bound  to  follow  farther  than  I  like,  or  than  seems  fair  and 
reasonable. 

On  the  question  being  started,  A said,  "  I  suppose  the 

two  first  persons  you  would  choose  to  see  would  be  the  two 
greatest  names  in  English  literature,  Sir  Isaac  Newton  and  Mr. 

20  Locke?"    In  this  A ,  as  usual,  reckoned" without  his  host. 

Every  one  burst  out  a  laughing  at  the  expression  of  B 's 

face,  in  which  impatience  was  restrained  by  courtesy.  "  Yes, 
the  greatest  names,"  he  stammered  out  hastily,  "  but  they 
were  not   persons  —  not   persons."  —  "  Not   persons  ?  "   said 

25  A ,  looking  wise  and  foolish  at  the  same  time,  afraid  his 

triumph  might  be  premature.    "  That  is,"  rejoined  B ,  "  not 

212 


PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN     213 

characters,  you  know.  By  Mr.  Locke  and  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  you 
mean  the  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding,  and  the  Principia, 
which  we  have  to  this  day.  Beyond  their  contents  there  is  noth- 
ing personally  interesting  in  the  men.  But  what  we  want  to  see 
any  one  bodily  for,  is  when  there  is  something  peculiar,  striking  5 
in  the  individuals,  more  than  we  can  learn  from  their  writings, 
and  yet  are  curious  to  know.  I  dare  say  Locke  and  Newton 
were  very  like  Kneller's  portraits  of  them.    But  who  could  paint 

Shakspeare?"  —  "Ay,"  retorted  A ,  "there  it  is;  then  I 

suppose  you  would  prefer  seeing  him  and  Milton  instead?"  10 

—  "No,"   said  B ,   "neither.     I   have  seen   so   much  of 

Shakspeare  on  the  stage  and  on  book-stalls,  in  frontispieces  and 
on  mantelpieces,  that  I  am  quite  tired  of  the  everlasting  repeti- 
tion :  and  as  to  Milton's  face,  the  impressions  that  have  come 
down  to  us  of  it  I  do  not  like  ;  it  is  too  starched  and  puritanical ;  1 5 
and  I  should  be  afraid  of  losing  some  of  the  manna  of  his  poetry 
in  the  leaven  of  his  countenance  and  the  precisian's  band  and 

gown."  —  "I  shall  guess  no  more,"  said  A .    "Who  is  it, 

then,  you  would  like  to  see  '  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,'  if  you  had 

your  choice  of  the  whole  range  of  English  literature .''  "     B 20 

then  named  Sir  Thomas  Brown  and  Fulke  Greville,  the  friend 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  as  the  two  worthies  whom  he  should  feel 
the  greatest  pleasure  to  encounter  on  the  floor  of  his  apartment 
in  their  night-gown  and  slippers,  and  to  exchange  friendly  greet- 
ing with  them.    At  this  A laughed  outright,  and  conceived  25 

B was  jesting  with  him  ;  but  as  no  one  followed  his  example, 

he  thought  there  might  be  something  in  it,  and  waited  for  an 

explanation  in  a  state  of  whimsical  suspense.    B then  (as 

well  as  I  can  remember  a  conversation  that  passed  twenty  years 
ago  —  how  time  slips !)  went  on  as  follows.  "  The  reason  why  30 
I  pitch  upon  these  two  authors  is,  that  their  writings  are  riddles, 
and  they  themselves  the  most  mysterious  of  personages.  They 
resemble  the  soothsayers  of  old,  who  dealt  in  dark  hints  and 
doubtful  oracles ;  and  I  should  like  to  ask  them  the  meaning  of 


214  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

what  no  mortal  but  themselves,  I  should  suppose,  can  fathom. 
There  is  Dr.  Johnson :  I  have  no  curiosity,  no  strange  uncer- 
tainty about  him :  he  and  Boswell  together  have  pretty  well  let 
me  into  the  secret  of  what  passed  through  his  mind.  He  and 
5  other  writers  like  him  are  sufficiently  explicit :  my  friends,  whose 
repose  I  should  be  tempted  to  disturb,  (were  it  in  my  power) 
are  implicit,  inextricable,  inscrutable. 

"  And  call  up  him  who  left  half-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold." 

ID  "When  I  look  at  that  obscure  but  gorgeous  prose-composi- 
tion (the  Urn-biiriaT)  I  seem  to  myself  to  look  into  a  deep  abyss, 
at  the  bottom  of  which  are  hid  pearls  and  rich  treasure ;  or  it  is 
like  a  stately  labyrinth  of  doubt  and  withering  speculation,  and 
I  would  invoke  the  spirit  of  the  author  to  lead  me  through  it. 

15  Besides,  who  would  not  be  curious  to  see  the  lineaments  of  a 
man  who,  having  himself  been  twice  married,  wished  that  man- 
kind were  propagated  like  trees !  As  to  Fulke  Greville,  he  is 
like  nothing  but  one  of  his  own  '  Prologues  spoken  by  the  ghost 
of  an  old  king  of  Ormus,'  a  truly  formidable  and  inviting  per- 

20  sonage :  his  style  is  apocalyptical,  cabalistical,  a  knot  worthy  of 
such  an  apparition  to  untie ;  and  for  the  unravelling  a  passage 
or  two,  I  would  stand  the  brunt  of  an  encounter  with  so  por- 
tentous a  commentator!"  —  "I  am  afraid  in  that  case,"  said 
A ,  "  that  if  the  mystery  were  once  cleared  up,  the  merit 

25  might   be   lost;"'  —  and  turning  to  me,  whispered  a  friendly 

apprehension,  that  while  B continued  to  admire  these  old 

crabbed  authors,  he  would  never  become  a  popular  writer. 
Dr.  Donne  was  mentioned  as  a  writer  of  the  same  period,  with 
a  very  interesting  countenance,  whose  history  was  singular,  and 

30  whose  meaning  was  often  quite  as  uncomeatable^  without  a  per- 
sonal citation  from  the  dead,  as  that  of  any  of  his  contemporaries. 
The  volume  was  produced  ;  and  while  some  one  was  expatiating 
on  the  exquisite  simplicity  and  beauty  of  the  portrait  prefixed  to 


PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO   HAVE  SEEN     21  5 

the  old  edition,  A got  hold  of  the  poetry,  and  exclaiming, 

"  What  have  we  here  ?  "  read  the  following :  — 

"  Here  lies  a  She-Sun  and  a  He-Moon  there. 
She  gives  the  best  light  to  his  sphere 

Or  each  is  both  and  all,  and  so  5 

They  unto  one  another  nothing  owe." 

There  was  no  resisting  this,  till  B ,  seizing  the  volume, 

turned  to  the  beautiful  "  Lines  to  his  Mistress,"  dissuading  her 
from  accompanying  him  abroad,  and  read  them  with  suffused 
features  and  a  faltering  tongue.  10 

"  By  our  first  strange  and  fatal  interview, 
By  all  desires  which  thereof  did  ensue, 
By  our  long  starving  hopes,  by  that  remorse 
Which  my  words'  masculine  persuasive  force 
Begot  in  thee,  and  by  the  memory  15 

Of  hurts,  which  spies  and  rivals  threaten'd  me, 
I  calmly  beg.    But  by  thy  father's  wrath, 
By  all  pains  which  want  and  divorcement  hath, 
I  conjure  thee ;  and  all  the  oaths  which  I 

And  thou  have  sworn  to  seal  joint  constancy  20 

Here  I  unswear,  and  overswear  them  thus. 
Thou  shalt  not  love  by  ways  so  dangerous. 
Temper,  oh  fair  Love !  love's  impetuous  rage, 
Be  my  true  mistress  still,  not  my  feign'd  Page ; 
I'll  go,  and,  by  thy  kind  leave,  leave  behind  25 

Thee,  only  worthy  to  nurse  it  in  my  mind. 
Thirst  to  come  back  ;  oh,  if  thou  die  before, 
My  soul  from  other  lands  to  thee  shall  soar. 
Thy  (else  Almighty)  beauty  cannot  move 

Rage  from  the  seas,  nor  thy  love  teach  them  love,  30 

Nor  tame  wild  Boreas"  harshness ;  thou  hast  read 
How  roughly  he  in  pieces  shiver'd 
Fair  Orithea,  whom  he  swore  he  lov'd. 
Fall  ill  or  good,  'tis  madness  to  have  prov'd 
Dangers  unurg'd  :  Feed  on  this  flattery,  -jc 

That  absent  lovers  one  with  th'  other  be. 
Dissemble  nothing,  not  a  boy  ;  nor  change 
Thy  body's  habit,  nor  mind ;  be  not  strange 
To  thyself  only.    All  will  spy  in  thy  face 


2l6  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

A  blushing,  womanly,  discovering  grace. 
Richly  cloth'd  apes  are  call'd  apes,  and  as  soon 
Eclips'd  as  bright  we  call  the  moon  the  moon. 
Men  of  France,  changeable  cameleons, 
S  Spittles  of  diseases,  shops  of  fashions. 

Love's  fuellers,  and  the  rightest  company 
Of  players,  which  upon  the  world's  stage  be, 
Will  quickly  know  thee.  .  .  .  O  stay  here !  for  thee 
England  is  only  a  worthy  gallery, 

lo  To  walk  in  expectation  ;  till  from  thence 

Our  greatest  King  call  thee  to  his  presence. 
When  I  am  gone,  dream  me  some  happiness. 
Nor  let  thy  looks  our  long  hid  love  confess, 
Nor  praise,  nor  dispraise  me ;  nor  bless,  nor  curse 

15  Openly  love's  force,  nor  in  bed  fright  thy  nurse 

With  midnight's  startings,  crying  out,  Oh,  oh, 
Nurse,  oh,  my  love  is  slain,  I  saw  him  go 
O'er  the  white  Alps  alone ;  I  saw  him,  I, 
Assail'd,  fight,  taken,  stabb'd,  bleed,  fall,  and  die. 

20  Augur  me  better  chance,  except  dread  Jove 

Think  it  enough  for  me  to  have  had  thy  love." 

Some  one  then  inquired  of  B if  we  could  not  see  from 

tlie  window  the  Temple-walk  in  which  Chaucer  used  to  take  his 
exercise ;  and  on  his  name  being  put  to  the  vote,  I  was  pleased 

25  to  find  that  there  was  a  general  sensation  in  his  favour  in  all 

but  A ,  who  said  something  about  the  ruggedness  of  the 

metre,  and  even  objected  to  the  quaintness  of  the  orthography. 
I  was  vexed  at  this  superficial  gloss,  pertinaciously  reducing 
every  thing  to  its  own  trite  level,  and  asked  if  he  did  not  think 

30  it  would  be  worth  while  to  scan  the  eye  that  had  first  greeted 
the  Muse  in  that  dim  twilight  and  early  dawn  of  English  litera- 
ture ;  to  see  the  head,  round  which  the  visions  of  fancy  must 
have  played  like  gleams  of  inspiration  or  a  sudden  glory ;  to 
watch   those   lips   that  "  lisped   in   numbers,   for   the   numbers 

35  came  "  —  as  by  a  miracle,  or  as  if  the  dumb  should  speak  }  Nor 
was  it  alone  that  he  had  been  the  first  to  tunc  his  native  tongue 
(however  imperfectly  to  modern  ears) ;  but  he  was  himself  a 
noble,  manly  character,  standing  before  his  age  and  striving 


PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN     21/ 

to  advance  it ;  a  pleasant  humourist  withal,  who  has  not  only 
handed  down  to  us  the  living  manners  of  his  time,  but  had,  no 
doubt,  store  of  curious  and  quaint  devices,  and  would  make  as 
hearty  a  companion  as  Mine  Host  of  the  Tabard.  His  interview 
with  Petrarch  is  fraught  with  interest.  Yet  I  would  rather  have  5 
seen  Chaucer  in  company  with  the  author  of  the  Decameron, 
and  have  heard  them  exchange  their  best  stories  together,  —  the 
Squire's  Tale  against  the  story  of  the  Falcon,  the  Wife  of  Bath's 
Prologue  against  the  Adventures  of  Friar  Albert.  How  fine  to 
see  the  high  mysterious  brow  which  learning  then  wore,  re-  10 
lieved  by  the  gay,  familiar  tone  of  men  of  the  world,  and  by 
the  courtesies  of  genius.  Surely,  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
which  passed  through  the  minds  of  these  great  revivers  of  learn- 
ing, these  Cadmuses  who  sowed  the  teeth  of  letters,  must  have 
stamped  an  expression  on  their  features,  as  different  from  the  15 
moderns  as  their  books,  and  well  worth  the  perusal.  "  Dante," 
I  continued,  "  is  as  interesting  a  person  as  his  own  Ugolino,  one 
whose  lineaments  curiosity  would  as  eagerly  devour  in  order  to 
penetrate  his  spirit,  and  the  only  one  of  the  Italian  poets  I  should 
care  much  to  see.  There  is  a  fine  portrait  of  Ariosto  by  no  less  20 
a  hand  than  Titian's  ;  light,  Moorish,  spirited,  but  not  answering 
our  idea.  The  same  artist's  large  colossal  profile  of  Peter  Aretine 
is  the  only  likeness  of  the  kind  that  has  the  effect  of  conversing 
with  '  the  mighty  dead,'  and  this  is  truly  spectral,  ghastly,  necro- 
mantic."   B put  it  to  me  if  I  should  like  to  see  Spenser  25 

as  well  as  Chaucer ;  and  I  answered  without  hesitation,  "  No ; 
for  that  his  beauties  were  ideal,  visionary,  not  palpable  or  per- 
sonal, and  therefore  connected  with  less  curiosity  about  the  man. 
His  poetry  was  the  essence  of  romance,  a  very  halo  round  the 
bright  orb  of  fancy ;  and  the  bringing  in  the  individual  might  30 
dissolve  the  charm.  No  tones  of  voice  could  come  up  to  the 
mellifluous  cadence  of  his  verse ;  no  form  but  of  a  winged 
angel  could  vie  with  the  airy  shapes  he  has  described.  He  was 
(to  our  apprehensions)  rather  a  '  creature  of  the  element,  that 


2l8  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

lived  in  the  rainbow  and  played  in  the  plighted  clouds,'  than  an 
ordinary  mortal.  Or  if  he  did  appear,  I  should  wish  it  to  be  as 
a  mere  vision,  like  one  of  his  own  pageants,  and  that  he  should 
pass  by  unquestioned  like  a  dream  or  sound  — 

' That  was  Arion  crown'd  : 


So  went  he  playing  on  the  wat'ry  plain  ! '  " 

Captain  C.  muttered  something  about  Columbus,  and  M.  C. 
hinted  at  the  Wandering  Jew ;  but  the  last  was  set  aside  as 
spurious,  and  the  first  made  over  to  the  New  World. 

10  "  I  should  like,"  said  Miss  D ,  "  to  have  seen  Pope  talk- 
ing with  Patty  Blount ;  and  I  Jiavc  seen  Goldsmith."    Every  one 

turned  round  to  look  at  Miss  D ,  as  if  by  so  doing  they  too 

could  get  a  sight  of  Goldsmith. 

"  Where,"  asked  a  harsh  croaking  voice,  "  was  Dr.  Johnson 

15  in  the  years  1745-6.-'  He  did  not  write  any  thing  that  we 
know  of,  nor  is  there  any  account  of  him  in  Boswell  during 
those  two  years.  Was  he  in  Scotland  with  the  Pretender  ?  He 
seems  to  have  passed  through  the  scenes  in  the  Highlands  in 
company  with  Boswell  many  years  after  '  with  lack-lustre  eye,' 

20  yet  as  if  they  were  familiar  to  him,  or  associated  in  his  mind 
with  interests  that  he  durst  not  explain.  If  so,  it  would  be  an 
additional  reason  for  my  liking  him ;  and  I  would  give  some- 
thing to  have  seen  him  seated  in  the  tent  with  the  youthful 
Majesty  of  Britain,  and  penning  the  Proclamation  to  all  true 

25  subjects  and  adherents  of  the  legitimate  Government." 

"  I  thought,"  said  A ,  turning  short  round  upon  B , 

"  that  you  of  the  Lake  School  did  not  like  Pope  t  "  —  "  Not  like 
Pope  !  My  dear  sir,  you  must  be  under  a  mistake  —  I  can  read 
him  over  and  over  for  ever !  "  —  "  Why  certainly,  the  Essay  on 

30  Man  must  be  allowed  to  be  a  master-piece."  —  "  It  may  be  so, 
but  I  .seldom  look  into  it."  —  "  Oh !  then  it's  his  Satires  you 
admire  ?  "  —  "  No,  not  his  Satires,  but  his  friendly  Epistles  and 
his  compliments."  —  "  Compliments !  I  did  not  know  he  ever 


PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN     219 

made  any."  —  "  The  finest,"  said  B- ,  "'  that  were  ever  paid 

by  the  wit  of  man.    Each  of  them  is  worth  an  estate  for  life  — 

nay,   is  an  immortality.    There   is   that  superb  one  to   Lord 

Cornbury : 

'  Despise  low  joys,  low  gains  ;  S 

Disdain  whatever  Cornbury  disdains  ; 
Be  virtuous,  and  be  happy  for  your  pains.' 

"  Was  there  ever  more  artful  insinuation  of  idolatrous  praise  ? 

And  then  that  noble  apotheosis  of  his  friend  Lord  Mansfield 

(however  little  deserved),  when,   speaking    of  the   House  of  10 

Lords,  he  adds  — 

'  Conspicuous  scene  !  another  yet  is  nigh, 
(More  silent  far)  where  kings  and  poets  lie  ; 
"Where  Murray  (long  enough  his  Country's  pride) 
Shall  be  no  more  than  Tully  or  than  Hyde ! '  15 

"  And  with  what  a  fine  turn  of  indignant  flattery  he  addresses 

Lord  Bolingbroke  — 

'  Why  rail  they  then,  if  but  one  wreath  of  mine, 
Oh!  all-accomplish'd  St.  John,  deck  thy  shrine?' 

"  Or  turn,"  continued  B ,  with  a  slight  hectic  on  his  cheek  20 

and  his  eye  glistening,  "  to  his  list  of  early  friends : 

'  Hut  why  then  publish  ?    Granville  the  polite, 
And  knowing  Walsh,  would  tell  me  I  could  write ; 
Well-natured  Garth  inflamed  with  early  praise. 
And  Congreve  loved  and  Swift  endured  my  lays:  25 

The  courtly  Talbot,  Somers,  Sheffield  read, 
Ev'n  mitred  Rochester  would  nod  the  head ; 
And  St.  John's  self  (great  Drydcn's  friend  before) 
Received  with  open  arms  one  poet  more. 

Happy  my  studies,  if  by  these  approved!  30 

Happier  their  author,  if  by  these  beloved ! 
From  these  the  world  will  judge  of  men  and  books, 
Not  from  the  Burnets,  Oldmixons,  and  Cooks.'  " 

Here  his  voice  totally  failed  him,  and  throwing  down  the  book, 
he  said,  "  Do  you  think  I  would  not  wish  to  have  been  friends  35 
with  such  a  man  as  this  ? " 


220  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

"  What  say  you  to  Dryden  ? "  —  "  He  rather  made  a  show  of 
himself,  and  courted  popularity  in  that  lowest  temple  of  Fame, 
a  coffee-house,  so  as  in  some  measure  to  vulgarize  one's  idea 
of  him.    Pope,  on  the  contrary,  reached  the  very  beau  ideal  of 

5  what  a  poet's  life  should  be ;  and  his  fame  while  living  seemed 
to  be  an  emanation  from  that  which  was  to  circle  his  name  after 
death.  He  was  so  far  enviable  (and  one  would  feel  proud  to 
have  witnessed  the  rare  spectacle  in  him)  that  he  was  almost 
the  only  poet  and  man  of  genius  who  met  with  his  reward  on 

lo  this  side  of  the  tomb,  who  realized  in  friends,  fortune,  the  esteem 
of  the  world,  the  most  sanguine  hopes  of  a  youthful  ambition, 
and  who  found  that  sort  of  patronage  from  the  great  during  his 
lifetime  which  they  would  be  thought  anxious  to  bestow  upon 
him  after  his  death.    Read  Gay's  verses  to  him  on  his  supposed 

15  return  from  Greece,  after  his  translation  of  Homer  was  finished, 
and  say  if  you  would  not  gladly  join  the  bright  procession  that 
welcomed  him  home,  or  see  it  once  more  land  at  Whitehall-stairs." 

—  "  Still,"  said  Miss  D ,  "  I  would  rather  have  seen  him 

talking  with  Patty  Blount,  or  riding  by  in  a  coronet-coach  with 

20  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  !  " 

E ,  who  was  deep  in  a  game  of  piquet  at  the  other  end 

of  the  room,  whispered  to  M.  C.  to  ask  if  Junius  would  not  be 

a  fit  person   to  invoke  from  the  dead.    "  Yes,"  said  B , 

"  provided  he  would  agree  to  lay  aside  his  mask." 

25  We  were  now  at  a  stand  for  a  short  time,  when  Fielding  was 
mentioned  as  a  candidate :  only  one,  however,  seconded  the 
proposition.  "  Richardson  ?  "  —  "  By  all  means,  but  only  to 
look  at  1-iiin  through  the  glass-door  of  his  back-shop,  hard  at 
work  upon  one  of  his  novels  (the  most  extraordinary  contrast 

30  that  ever  was  presented  between  an  author  and  his  works),  but 
not  to  let  him  come  behind  his  counter  lest  he  should  want  you 
to  turn  customer,  nor  to  go  upstairs  with  him,  lest  he  should 
offer  to  read  the  first  manuscript  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison, 
which    was    originally    written    in    eight    and   twenty   volumes 


PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO   HAVE  SEEN     221 

octavo,  or  get  out  the  letters  of  his  female  correspondents,  to 
prove  that  Joseph  Andrews  was  low." 

There  was  but  one  statesman  in  the  whole  of  English  history 
that  any  one  expressed  the  least  desire  to  see  —  Oliver  Crom- 
well, with  his  fine,  frank,  rough,  pimply  face,  and  wily  policy  ;  —  5 
and  one  enthusiast,  John  Bunyan,  the  immortal  author  of  the 
Pilgrrim's  Progress.  It  seemed  that  if  he  came  into  the  room, 
dreams  would  follow  him,  and  that  each  person  would  nod 
under  his  golden  cloud,  "  nigh-sphered  in  Heaven,"  a  canopy  as 
strange  and  stately  as  any  in  Homer.  10 

Of   all    persons  near  our  own  time,   Garrick's  name   was 
received  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm,  who  was  proposed  by 

J.  F .    He  presently  superseded  both  Hogarth  and  Handel, 

who  had  been  talked  of,  but  then  it  was  on  condition  that  he 
should  act  in  tragedy  and  comedy,  in  the  play  and  the  farce,  15 
Lear  and  Wildair  and  Abel  Drugger.  What  a  sight  for  sore 
eyes  that  would  be !  Who  would  not  part  with  a  year's  income 
at  least,  almost  wdth  a  year  of  his  natural  life,  to  be  present 
at  it?  Besides,  as  he  could  not  act  alone,  and  recitations  are 
unsatisfactory  things,  what  a  troop  he  must  bring  with  him  —  20 
the  silver-tongued  Barry,  and  Quin,  and  Shuter  and  Weston, 
and  Mrs.  Clive  and  Mrs.  Pritchard,  of  whom  I  have  heard  my 
father  speak  as  so  great  a  favourite  when  he  was  young ! 
This  would  indeed  be  a  revival  of  the  dead,  the  restoring  of 
art;  and  so  much  the  more  desirable,  as  such  is  the  lurking  25 
scepticism  mingled  with  our  overstrained  admiration  of  past 
excellence,  that  though  we  have  the  speeches  of  Burke,  the 
portraits  of  Reynolds,  the  writings  of  Goldsmith,  and  the  con- 
versation of  Johnson,  to  show  what  people  could  do  at  that 
period,  and  to  confirm  the  universal  testimony  to  the  merits  of  30 
Garrick  ;  yet,  as  it  was  before  our  time,  we  have  our  misgivings, 
as  if  he  was  probably  after  all  little  better  than  a  Bartlemy- 
fair  actor,  dressed  out  to  play  Macbeth  in  a  scarlet  coat  and 
laced  cocked-hat.    For  one,   I   should  like   to  have  seen   and 


222  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

heard  with  my  own  eyes  and  ears.  Certainly,  by  all  accounts, 
if  any  one  was  ever  moved  by  the  true  histrionic  cestus,  it  was 
Garrick.  When  he  followed  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet,  he  did  not 
drop  the  sword,  as  most  actors  do  behind  the  scenes,  but  kept 
5  the  point  raised  the  whole  way  round,  so  fully  was  he  possessed 
with  the  idea,  or  so  anxious  not  to  lose  sight  of  his  part  for  a 

moment.    Once  at  a  splendid  dinner-party  at  Lord 's,  they 

suddenly  missed  Garrick,  and  could  not  imagine  what  was 
become  of  him,  till  they  were  drawn  to  the  window  by  the  con- 

lo  vulsive  screams  and  peals  of  laughter  of  a  young  negro  boy, 
who  was  rolling  on  the  ground  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight  to  see 
Garrick  mimicking  a  turkey-cock  in  the  court-yard,  with  his 
coat-tail  stuck  out  behind,  and  in  a  seeming  flutter  of  feathered 
rage  and  pride.    Of  our  party  only  two  persons  present  had 

1 5  seen  the  British  Roscius ;  and  they  seemed  as  willing  as  the 
rest  to  renew  their  acquaintance  with  their  old  favourite. 

We  were  interrupted  in  the  hey-day  and  mid-career  of  this 
fanciful  speculation,  by  a  grumbler  in  a  comer,  who  declared  it 
was  a  shame  to  make  all  this  rout  about  a  mere  player  and 

2o  farce-writer,  to  the  neglect  and  exclusion  of  the  fine  old  drama- 
tists, the  contemporaries  and  rivals  of  Shakspeare.    B said 

he  had  anticipated  this  objection  when  he  had  named  the  author 
of  Mustapha  and  Alaham ;  and  out  of  caprice  insisted  upon 
keeping  him  to  represent  the  set,  in  preference  to  the  wild  hare- 

25  brained  enthusiast,  Kit  Marlowe ;  to  the  sexton  of  St.  Ann's, 
Webster,  with  his  melancholy  yew-trees  and  death's-heads ;  to 
Deckar,  who  was  but  a  garrulous  proser ;  to  the  voluminous 
Heywood ;  and  even  to  Beaumont  g^d  Fletcher,  whom  we 
might   offend    by   complimenting   the   wrong    author  on   their 

30  joint  productions.  Lord  Brook,  on  the  contrary,  stood  quite  by 
himself,  or  in  Cowley's  words,  was  "  a  vast  species  alone." 
Some  one  hinted  at  the  circumstance  of  his  being  a  lord,  which 
rather  startled  B ,  but  he  said  a  ghosf  would  perhaps  dis- 
pense with  strict  etiquette,  on  being  regularly  addressed  by  his 


PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN     223 

title.  Ben  Jonson  divided  our  suiTrages  pretty  equally.  Some 
were  afraid  he  would  begin  to  traduce  Shakspeare,  who  was 
not  present  to  defend  himself.    "  If  he  grows  disagreeable," 

it  was  whispered  aloud,  "  there  is  G can  match  him."    At 

length,  his  romantic  visit  to  Drummond  of  Hawthornden  was  5 
mentioned,  and  turned  the  scale  in  his  favour. 

B inquired  if  there  was  any  one  that  was  hanged  that  I 

would  choose  to  mention  ?  And  I  answered,  Eugene  Aram.^ 
The  name  of  the  "  Admirable  Crichton  "  was  suddenly  started 
as  a  splendid  example  of  waste  talents,  so  different  from  the  10 
generality  of  his  countrymen.  This  choice  was  mightily  ap- 
proved by  a  North- Briton  present,  who  declared  himself  de- 
scended from  that  prodigy  of  learning  and  accomplishment,  and 
said  he  had  family-plate  in  his  possession  as  vouchers  for  the 

fact,  with   the   initials  A.  C.  —  Admirable   Crichton !   H 1 5 

laughed  or  rather  roared  as  heartily  at  this  as  I  should  think 
he  has  done  for  many  years. 

The  last-named  Mitre-courtier  ^  then  wished  to  know  whether 
there  were  any  metaphysicians  to  whom  one  might  be  tempted 
to  apply  the  wizard  spell  ?  I  replied,  there  were  only  six  in  20 
modern  times  deserving  the  name  —  Hobbes,  Berkeley,  Buder, 
Hardey,  Hume,  Leibnitz ;  and  perhaps  Jonathan  Edwards,  a 
Massachusetts  man.^  As  to  the  French,  who  talked  fluently  of 
having  created  this  science,  there  was  not  a  tittle  in  any  of  their 
writings,  that  was  not  to  be  found  literally  in  the  authors  I  had  25 
mentioned.    [Home  Tooke,  who  might  have  a  claim  to  come  in 

1  See  Newgate  Calendar  for  1758. 

2  B at  this  time  occupied  chambers  in  Mitre  court,  Fleet  street. 

8  Lord  Bacon  is  not  included  in  this  list,  nor  do  I  know  where  he  should  come 
in.  It  is  not  easy  to  make  room  for  him  and  his  reputation  together.  This  great 
and  celebrated  man  in  some  of  his  works  recommends  it  to  pour  a  bottle  of 
claret  into  the  ground  of  a  morning,  and  to  stand  over  it,  inhaling  the  perfumes. 
So  he  sometimes  enriched  the  dry  and  barren  soil  of  speculation  with  the  fine 
aromatic  spirit  of  his  genius.  His  Essays  and  his  Advancement  of  Learning  are 
works  of  vast  depth  and  scope  of  observation.  The  last,  though  it  contains  no 
positive  discoveries,  is  a  noble  chart  of  the  human  intellect,  and  a  guide  to  all 
future  inquirers. 


224  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

under  the  head  of  Grammar,  was  still  living.]  None  of  these 
nanfies  seemed  to  excite  much  interest,  and  1  did  not  plead  for 
the  re-appearance  of  those  who  might  be  thought  best  fitted 
by  the  abstracted  nature  of  their  studies  for  the  present  spirit- 
5  ual  and  disembodied  state,  and  who,  even  while  on  this  living 
stage,  were  nearly  divested  of  common  flesh  and  blood.    As 

A with  an  uneasy,  fidgety  face  was  about  to  put  some 

question  about  Mr.  Locke  and  Dugald  Stewart,  he  was  pre- 
vented by  M.  C.  who  observed,  "  If  J was  here,  he  would 

10  undoubtedly  be  for  having  up  those  profound  and  redoubted 
socialists,  Thomas  Aquinas  and  Duns  Scotus."  I  said  this 
might  be  fair  enough  in  him  who  had  read  or  fancied  he  had 
read  the  original  works,  but  I  did  not  see  how  we  could  have 
any  right. to   call  up  these  authors  to  give  an  account  of  them- 

15  selves  in  person  till  we  had  looked  into  their  writings. 

By  this  time  it  should  seem  that  some  rumour  of  our  whim- 
sical deliberation  had  got  wind,  and  had  disturbed  the  irritable 
genus  in  their  shadowy  abodes,  for  we  received  messages  from 
several  candidates  that  we  had  just  been  thinking  of.    Gray 

20  declined  our  invitation,  though  he  had  not  yet  been  asked : 
Gay  offered  to  come  and  bring  in  his  hand  the  Duchess  of 
Bolton,  the  original  Polly :  Steele  and  Addison  left  their  cards 
as  Captain  Sentry  and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley :  Swift  came  in 
and  sat  down  without  speaking  a  word,  and  quitted  the  room 

25  as  abruptly :  Otway  and  Chatterton  were  seen  lingering  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  Styx,  but  could  not  muster  enough  between 
them  to  pay  Charon  his  fare :  Thomson  fell  asleep  in  the  boat, 
and  was  rowed  back  again  —  and  Burns  sent  a  low  fellow,  one 
John  Barleycorn,  an  old  companion  of  his  who  had  conducted 

30  him  to  the  other  world,  to  say  that  he  had  during  his  lifetime 
Ix'cn  drawn  out  of  his  retirement  as  a  show,  only  to  be  made  an 
exciseman  of,  and  that  he  would  rather  remain  where  he  was. 
Tie  desired,  however,  to  shake  hands  by  his  representative  —  the 
hand,  thus  held  out,  was  in  a  burning  fever,  and  shook  prodigiously. 


PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN     225 

The  room  was  hung  round  with  several  portraits  of  eminent 
painters.  While  we  were  debating"  whether  we  should  demand 
speech  with  these  masters  of  mute  eloquence,  whose  features 
were  so  familiar  to  us,  it  seemed  that  all  at  once  they  glided 
from  their  frames,  and  seated  themselves  at  some  little  distance  5 
from  us.  There  was  Leonardo  with  his  majestic  beard  and 
watchful  eye,  having  a  bust  of  Archimedes  before  him ;  next 
him  was  Raphael's  graceful  head  turned  round  to  the 
Fornarina ;  and  on  his  other  side  was  Lucretia  Borgia,  with 
calm,  golden  locks ;  Michael  Angelo  had  placed  the  model  of  10 
St.  Peter's  on  the  table  before  him ;  Corregio  had  an  angel  at 
his  side ;  Titian  was  seated  with  his  Mistress  between  himself 
and  Giorgioni ;  Guido  was  accompanied  by  his  own  Aurora, 
who  took  a  dice-box  from  him ;  Claude  held  a  mirror  in  his 
hand ;  Rubens  patted  a  beautiful  panther  (led  in  by  a  satyr)  on  1 5 
the  head ;  Vandyke  appeared  as  his  own  Paris,  and  Rembrandt 
was  hid  under  furs,  gold  chains  and  jewels,  which  Sir  Joshua 
eyed  closely,  holding  his  hand  so  as  to  shade  his  forehead. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken ;  and  as  we  rose  to  do  them  homage, 
they  still  presented  the  same  surface  to  the  view.  Not  being  20 
bond-fide  representations  of  living  people,  we  got  rid  of  the 
splendid  apparitions  by  signs  and  dumb  show.  As  soon  as 
they  had  melted  into  thin  air,  there  was  a  loud  noise  at  the 
outer  door,  and  we  found  it  was  Giotto,  Cimabue,  and  Ghir- 
landaio,  who  had  been  raised  from  the  dead  by  their  earnest  25 
desire  to  see  their  illustrious  successors  — 

"  Whose  names  on  earth 
In  Fame's  eternal  records  live  for  aye ! '' 

Finding  them  gone,  they  had  no  ambition  to  be  seen  after 

them,  and  mournfully  withdrew.   "  Egad  !  "  said  B ,  "  those  30 

are  the  very  fellows  I  should  like  to  have  had  some  talk  with,  to 
know  how  they  could  see  to  paint  when  all  was  dark  around 
them  ? " 


226  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

'^  But  shall  we  have  nothing  to  say,"  interrogated  G.  J- 
"  to  the  Legend  of  Good  Women  ? " — "  Name,  name,  Mr.  J— 


cried  H in  a  boisterous  tone  of  friendly  exultation,  "  name 

as  many  as  you  please,  without  reserve  or  fear  of  molestation  !  " 

5  J was  perplexed  between  so  many  amiable  recollections, 

that  the  name  of  the  lady  of  his  choice  expired  in  a  pensive 

whiff  of  his  pipe ;    and   B impatiently  declared  for  the 

Duchess  of  Newcastle.  Mrs.  Hutchinson  was  no  sooner  men- 
tioned, than  she  carried  the  day  from  the  Duchess.    We  were 

lo  the  less  solicitous  on  this  subject  of  filling  up  the  posthumous 
lists  of  Good  Women,  as  there  was  already  one  in  the  room  as 
good,  as  sensible,  and  in  all  respects  as  exemplary,  as  the  best 
of  them  could  be  for  their  lives  !  "I  should  like  vastly  to  have 
seen  Ninon  de  I'Enclos,"  said  that  incomparable  person;   and 

1 5  this  immediately  put  us  in  mind  that  we  had  neglected  to  pay 
honour  due  to  our  friends  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel : 
Voltaire,  the  patriarch  of  levity,  and  Rousseau,  the  father  of  senti- 
ment, Montaigne  and  Rabelais  (great  in  wisdom  and  in  wit), 
Moliere  and  that  illustrious  group  that  are  collected  round  him 

2o  (in  the  print  of  that  subject)  to  hear  him  read  his  comedy 
of  the  Tartuffe  at  the  house  of  Ninon ;  Racine,  La  Fontaine, 
Rochefoucault,  St.  Evremont,  &c. 

"  There  is  one  person,"  said  a  shrill,  querulous  voice,  "  I 
would  rather  see  than  all  these  —  Don  Quixote  !  " 

25       "  Come,  come  !  "  said  H ;  "  I  thought  we  should  have  no 

heroes,  real  or  fabulous.    What  say  you,  Mr.  B ?    Are  you 

for  eking  out  your  shadowy  list  with  such  names  as  Alexander, 
Julius  Caesar,  Tamerlane,  or  Ghengis  Khan  ?  "  "  Excuse  me," 
said    B ,    "  on   the    subject   of    characters    in    active   life, 

30  plotters  and  disturbers  of  the  world,  I  have  a  crotchet  of  my 
own,  which  I  beg  leave  to  reserve."  —  "  No,  no!  come,  out  with 
your  worthies !  "  —  "  What   do   you   think  of   Guy  Faux   and 

Judas  Iscariot?"     H turned  an  eye  upon  him  like  a  wild 

Indian,  but  cordial  and  full  of  smothered  glee.    "  Your  most 


PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH  TO  HAVE  SEEN     227 

exquisite    reason ! "    was   echoed   on    all    sides ;    and    A 

thought  that  B had  now  fairly  entangled  himself.     "  Why, 

I  cannot  but  think,"  retorted  he  of  the  wistful  countenance, 
"  that  Guy  Faux,  that  poor  fluttering  annual  scare-crow  of 
straw  and  rags,  is  an  ill-used  gentleman.  I  would  give  some-  5 
thing  to  see  him  sitting  pale  and  emaciated,  surrounded  by  his 
matches  and  his  barrels  of  gunpowder,  and  expecting  the 
moment  that  was  to  transport  him  to  Paradise  for  his  heroic 
self-devotion ;    but   if    I    say   any   more,   there   is    that    fellow 

G will  make  something  of  it.  —  And  as  to  Judas  Iscariot,  10 

my  reason  is  different.  1  would  fain  see  the  face  of  him,  who, 
having  dipped  his  hand  in  the  same  dish  with  the  Son  of  Man, 
could  afterwards  betray  him.  I  have  no  conception  of  such  a 
thing ;  nor  have  I  ever  seen  any  picture  (not  even  Leonardo's 
very  fine  one)  that  gave  me  the  least  idea  of  it." — "  You  have  15 
said  enough,  Mr.  B ,  to  justify  your  choice." 

"  Oh  !  ever  right,  Menenius, —  ever  right !  " 

"  There  is  only  one  other  person  I  can  ever  think  of  after 

this,"  continued  H ;  but  without  mentioning  a  name  that 

once  put  on  a  semblance  of  mortality.  "  If  Shakspeare  was  to  20 
come  into  the  room,  we  should  all  rise  up  to  meet  him  ;  but  if 
that  person  was  to  come  into  it,  we  should  all  fall  down  and  try 
to  kiss  the  hem  of  his  garment !  " 

As  a  lady  present  seemed  now  to  get  uneasy  at  the  turn  the 
conversation  had  taken,  we  rose  up  to  go.  The  morning  broke  25 
with  that  dim,  dubious  light  by  which  Giotto,  Cimabue,  and 
Ghirlandaio  must  have  seen  to  paint  their  earliest  works ;  and 
we  parted  to  meet  again  and  renew  similar  topics  at  night,  the 
next  night,  and  the  night  after  that,  till  that  night  overspread 
Europe  which  saw  no  dawn.  The  same  event,  in  truth,  broke  30 
up  our  little  Congress  that  broke  up  the  great  one.  But  that 
was  to  meet  again:  our  deliberations  have  never  been  resumed. 


ON  THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY 
IN  YOUTH 

"  Life  is  a  pure  flame,  and  we  live  by  an  invisible  sun  within  us." 

—  Sir  Thomas  Brown. 

No  young  man  believes  he  shall  ever  die.   It  w^as  a  saying  of 

my  brother's,  and  a  fine  one.    There  is  a  feeling  of  Eternity  in 

youth,  which  makes  us  amends  for  every  thing.    To  be  young  is 

to  be  as  one  of  the  Immortal  Gods.   One  half  of  time  indeed 

5  is  flown  —  the  other  half  remains  in  store  for  us  with  all  its 

countless  treasures ;  for  there  is  no  line  drawn,  and  we  see  no 

limit  to  our  hopes  and  wishes.    We  make  the  coming  age  our 

own.  — 

"  The  vast,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  us." 

ID  Death,  old  age,  are  words  without  a  meaning,  that  pass  by  us 
like  the  idle  air  which  we  regard  not.  Others  may  have  under- 
gone, or  may  still  be  liable  to  them  —  we  "bear  a  charmed 
life,"  which  laughs  to  scorn  all  such  sickly  fancies.  As  in  set- 
ting out  on  a  delightful  journey,  we  strain  our  eager  gaze 

15  forward  — 

"  Bidding  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail,"  — 

and  see  no  end  to  the  landscape,  new  objects  presenting  them- 
selves as  we  advance  ;  so,  in  the  commencement  of  life,  we  set 
no  bounds  to  our  inclinations,  nor  to  the  unrestricted  oppor- 
20  tunitics  of  gratifying  them.  We  have  as  yet  found  no  obstacle, 
no  disposition  to  flag ;  and  it  seems  that  we  can  go  on  so  for 
ever.  We  look  round  in  a  new  world,  full  of  life,  and  motion, 
and  ceaseless  progress ;  and  feel  in  ourselves  all  the  vigour  and 
spirit  to  keep  pace  with  il,  and  do  no],  foresee  from  any  present 


THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH       229 

symptoms  how  we  shall  be  left  behind  in  the  natural  course  of 
things,  decline  into  old  age,  and  drop  into  the  grave.  It  is  the 
simplicity,  and  as  it  were  abstractedness  of  our  feelings  in  youth, 
that  (so  to  speak)  identifies  us  with  nature,  and  (our  experience 
being  slight  and  our  passions  strong)  deludes  us  into  a  belief  5 
of  being  immortal  like  it.  Our  short-lived  connection  with  ex- 
istence, we  fondly  flatter  ourselves,  is  an  indissoluble  and  lasting 
union  —  a  honey-moon  that  knows  neither  coldness,  jar,  nor 
separation.  As  infants  smile  and  sleep,  we  are  rocked  in  the 
cradle  of  our  wayward  fancies,  and  lulled  into  security  by  the  10 
roar  of  the  universe  around  us  —  we  quaff  the  cup  of  life  with 
eager  haste  without  draining  it,  instead  of  which  it  only  over- 
flows the  more  —  objects  press  around  us,  filling  the  mind  with 
their  magnitude  and  with  the  throng  of  desires  that  wait  upon 
them,  so  that  we  have  no  room  for  the  thoughts  of  death.  15 
From  the  plenitude  of  our  being,  we  cannot  change  all  at  once 
to  dust  and  ashes,  we  cannot  imagine  "  this  sensible,  warm 
motion,  to  become  a  kneaded  clod  "  —  we  are  too  much  daz- 
zled by  the  brightness  of  the  waking  dream  around  us  to  look 
into  the  darkness  of  the  tomb.  We  no  more  see  our  end  than  20 
our  beginning:  the  one  is  lost  in  oblivion  and  vacancy,  as  the 
other  is  hid  from  us  by  the  crowd  and  hurry  of  approaching 
events.  Or  the  grim  shadow  is  seen  lingering  in  the  horizon, 
which  we  are  doomed  never  to  overtake,  or  whose  last,  faint, 
glimmering  ouUine  touches  upon  Heaven  and  translates  us  to  25 
the  skies !  Nor  would  the  hold  that  life  has  taken  of  us  permit 
us  to  detach  our  thoughts  from  the  present  objects  and  pur- 
suits, even  if  we  would.  What  is  there  more  opposed  to  health, 
than  sickness ;  to  strength  and  beauty,  than  decay  and  disso- 
lution ;  to  the  active  search  of  knowledge  than  mere  oblivion .?  30 
Or  is  there  none  of  the  usual  advantage  to  bar  the  approach  of 
Death,  and  mock  his  idle  threats ;  Hope  supplies  their  place, 
and  draws  a  veil  over  the  abrupt  termination  of  all  our  cher- 
ished schemes.    While  the  spirit  of  youth  remains  unimpaired, 


230  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

ere  the  "  wine  of  life  is  drank  up,"  we  are  like  people  intoxi- 
cated or  in  a  fever,  who  are  hurried  away  by  the  violence  of 
their  own  sensations :  it  is  only  as  present  objects  begin  to  pall 
upon  the  sense,  as  we  have  been  disappointed  in  our  favourite 

5  pursuits,  cut  off  from  our  closest  ties,  that  passion  loosens  its 
hold  upon  the  breast,  that  we  by  degrees  become  weaned  from 
the  world,  and  allow  ourselves  to  contemplate,  "  as  in  a  glass, 
darkly,"  the  possibility  of  parting  with  it  for  good.  The  example 
of  others,  the  voice  of  experience,  has  no  effect  upon  us  what- 

lo  ever.  Casualties  we  must  avoid :  the  slow  and  deliberate  ad- 
vances of  age  we  can  play  at  hide-and-seek  with.  We  think 
ourselves  too  lusty  and  too  nimble  for  that  blear-eyed  decrepid 
old  gentleman  to  catch  us.  Like  the  foolish  fat  scullion,  in 
Sterne,  when  she  hears  that  Master  Bobby  is  dead,  our  only 

15  reflection  is  —  "  So  am  not  I !  "  The  idea  of  death,  instead  of 
staggering  our  confidence,  rather  seems  to  strengthen  and 
enhance  our  possession  and  our  enjoyment  of  life.  Others  may 
fall  around  like  leaves,  or  be  mowed  down  like  flowers  by  the 
scythe  of  Time :  these  are  but  tropes  and  figures  to  the  unre- 

20  fleeting  ears  and  overweening  presumption  of  youth.  It  is  not 
till  we  see  the  flowers  of  Love,  Hope,  and  Joy,  withering 
around  us,  and  our  own  pleasures  cut  up  by  the  roots,  that  we 
bring  the  moral  home  to  ourselves,  that  we  abate  something 
of  the  wanton  extravagance  of  our  pretensions,   or  that  the 

25  emptiness  and  dreariness  of  the  prospect  before  us  reconciles  us 
to  the  stillness  of  the  grave ! 

"  Life !  thou  strange  thing,  thou  hast  a  power  to  feel 
Thou  art,  and  to  perceive  that  others  are."  ^ 

Well  might  the  poet  begin  his  indignant  invective  against  an 
30  art,  whose  professed  object  is  its  destruction,  with  this  animated 
apostrophe  to  life.    Life  is  indeed  a  strange  gift,  and  its  privi- 
leges are  most  miraculous.    Nor  is  it  singular  that  when  the 
splendid  boon  is  first  granted  us,  our  gratitude,  our  admiration, 

1  I'awcctt's  Art  of  War,  a  poem,  1794. 


THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH      23 1 

and  our  delight  should  prevent  us  from  reflecting  on  our  own 
nothingness,  or  from  thinking  it  will  ever  be  recalled.  Our  first 
and  strongest  impressions  are  taken  from  the  mighty  scene 
that  is  opened  to  us,  and  we  very  innocently  transfer  its  dura- 
bility as  well  as  magnificence  to  ourselves.  So  newly  found,  we  5 
cannot  make  up  our  minds  to  parting  with  it  yet  and  at  least 
put  off  that  consideration  to  an  indefinite  term.  Like  a  clown  at 
a  fair,  we  are  full  of  amazement  and  rapture,  and  have  no 
thoughts  of  going  home,  or  that  it  will  soon  be  night.  We 
know  our  existence  only  from  external  objects,  and  we  measure  10 
it  by  them.  We  can  never  be  satisfied  with  gazing ;  and  nature 
will  still  want  us  to  look  on  and  applaud.  Otherwise,  the  sump- 
tuous entertainment,  "  the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul," 
to  which  they  were  invited,  seems  little  better  than  mockery 
and  a  cruel  insult.  We  do  not  go  from  a  play  till  the  scene  is  15 
ended,  and  the  lights  are  ready  to  be  extinguished.  But  the  fair 
face  of  things  still  shines  on ;  shall  we  be  called  away,  before 
the  curtain  falls,  or  ere  we  have  scarce  had  a  glimpse  of  what 
is  going  on  ?  Like  children,  our  step-mother  Nature  holds  us 
up  to  see  the  raree-show  of  the  universe ;  and  then,  as  if  life  20 
were  a  burthen  to  support,  lets  us  instantly  down  again.  Yet  in 
that  short  interval,  what  "  brave  sublunary  things "  does  not 
the  spectacle  unfold ;  like  a  bubble,  at  one  minute  reflecting  the 
universe,  and  the  next,  shook  to  air! — To  see  the  golden  sun 
and  the  azure  sky,  the  outstretched  ocean,  to  walk  upon  the  25 
green  earth,  and  to  be  lord  of  a  thousand  creatures,  to  look 
down  the  giddy  precipices  or  over  the  distant  flowery  vales,  to 
see  the  world  spread  out  under  one's  finger  in  a  map,  to  bring 
the  stars  near,  to  view  the  smallest  insects  in  a  microscope,  to 
read  history,  and  witness  the  revolutions  of  empires  and  the  30 
succession  of  generations,  to  hear  of  the  glory  of  Sidon  and 
Tyre,  of  Babylon  and  Susa,  as  of  a  faded  pageant,  and  to  say 
all  these  were,  and  are  now  nothing,  to  think  that  we  exist  in 
such  a  point  of  time,  and  in  such  a  corner  of  space,  to  be  at 


232  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

once  spectators  and  a  part  of  the  moving  scene,  to  watch  the 
return  of  the  seasons,  of  spring  and  autumn,  to  hear 

" The  stockdove  plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 

That  drowsy  rustles  to  the  sighing  gale  "  — 

5  to  traverse  desert  wilderness,  to  listen  to  the  midnight  choir,  to 
visit  lighted  halls,  or  plunge  into  the  dungeon's  gloom,  or  sit  in 
crowded  theatres  and  see  life  itself  mocked,  to  feel  heat  and  cold, 
pleasure  and  pain,  right  and  wrong,  truth  and  falsehood,  to  study 
the  works  of  art  and  refine  the  sense  of  beauty  to  agony,  to 
lo  worship  fame  and  to  dream  of  immortality,  to  have  read  Shak- 
speare  and  belong  to  the  same  species  as  Sir  Isaac  Newton  ;  ^  to 

1  Lady  Wortley  Montague  says,  in  one  of  her  letters,  that  "she  would  much 
rather  be  a  rich  effcndi,  with  all  his  ignorance,  than  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  with  all  his 
knowledge."  This  was  not  perhaps  an  impolitic  choice,  as  she  had  a  better 
chance  of  becoming  one  than  the  other,  there  being  many  rich  effendis  to  one 
Sir  Isaac  Newton.  The  wish  was  not  a  very  intellectual  one.  The  same  petu- 
lance of  rank  and  sex  breaks  out  every  w-here  in  these  "  LcUcrs."  She  is  con- 
stantly reducing  the  poets  or  philosophers  who  have  the  misfortune  of  her 
acquaintance,  to  the  figure  they  might  make  at  her  Ladyship's  levee  or  toilette, 
not  considering  that  the  public  mind  does  not  sympathize  with  this  process  of  a 
fastidious  imagination.  In  the  same  spirit,  she  declares  of  Pope  and  Swift,  that 
"  had  it  not  been  for  the  good-nat?irc  of  mankind,  these  two  superior  beings  were 
entitled,  by  their  birth  and  hereditary  fortune,  to  be  only  a  couple  of  link-boys." 
Gulliver's  Travels,  and  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  go  for  nothing  in  this  cridcal 
estimate,  and  the  world  raised  the  authors  to  the  rank  of  superior  beings,  in 
spite  of  their  disadvantages  of  birth  and  fortune,  out  of  furc  good-nature .'  So 
again,  she  says  of  Richardson,  that  he  had  never  got  beyond  the  servant's  hall, 
and  was  utterly  unfit  to  describe  the  manners  of  people  of  quahty ;  till  in  the 
capricious  workings  of  her  vanity,  she  persuades  herself  that  Clarissa  is  very 
like  what  she  was  at  her  age,  and  that  Sir  Thomas  and  Lady  Grandison  strongly 
resembled  what  she  had  heard  of  her  mother  and  remembered  of  her  father.  It 
is  one  of  the  beauties  and  advantages  of  literature,  that  it  is  the  means  of 
abstracting  the  mind  from  the  narrowness  of  local  and  personal  prejudices,  and 
of  enabling  us  to  judge  of  truth  and  excellence  by  their  inherent  merits  alone. 
Woe  be  to  the  pen  that  would  undo  this  fine  illusion  (the  only  reality),  and 
teach  us  to  regulate  our  notions  of  genius  and  virtue  by  the  circumstances  in 
which  they  happen  to  be  placed  !  You  would  not  expect  a  person  whom  you  saw 
in  a  servant's  hall,  or  behind  a  counter,  to  write  Clarissa;  but  after  he  had 
written  the  work,  to  prc-judgc  it  from  the  situation  of  the  writer,  is  an  unpar- 
donable piece  of  injustice  and  folly.  His  merit  could  only  be  the  greater  from 
the  contrast.  If  literature  is  an  elegant  accomplishment,  which  none  but  persons 
of  birth  and  fashion  sliould  be  allowed  to  e.xcel  in,  or  to  exercise  with  advantage 
to  the  public,  let  them  by  all  means  take  upon  them  the  task  of  enlightening  and 


THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH       233 

be  and  to  do  all  this,  and  then  in  a  moment  to  be  nothing,  to  have 
it  all  snatched  from  one  like  a  juggler's  ball  or  a  phantasmagoria; 

refining  mankind :  if  they  decline  this  responsibility  as  too  heavy  for  their 
shoulders,  let  those  who  do  the  drudgery  in  their  stead,  however  inadequately, 
for  want  of  their  polite  example,  receive  the  meed  that  is  their  due,  and  not  be 
treated  as  low  pretenders  who  have  encroached  upon  the  provinces  of  their 
betters.  Suppose  Richardson  to  have  been  acquainted  with  the  great  man's 
steward,  or  valet,  instead  of  the  great  man  himself,  I  will  venture  to  say  that 
there  was  more  difference  between  him  who  lived  in  an  ideal  tvorld,  and  had  the 
genius  and  felicity  to  open  that  world  to  others,  and  his  friend  the  steward,  than 
between  the  lacquey  and  the  mere  lord,  or  between  those  who  lived  in  differ- 
ent rooms  of  the  same  house,  who  dined  on  the  same  luxuries  at  different  tables, 
who  rode  outside  or  inside  of  the  same  coach,  and  were  proud  of  wearing  or  of 
bestowing  the  same  tawdry  livery.  If  the  lord  is  distinguished  from  his  valet 
by  any  thing  else,  it  is  by  education  and  talent,  which  he  has  in  common  with 
the  author.  But  if  the  latter  shews  these  in  the  highest  degree,  it  is  asked  what 
are  his  pretensions  ?  Not  birth  or  fortune,  for  neither  of  these  would  enable 
him  to  write  Clarissa.  One  man  is  bom  with  a  title  and  estate,  another  with  genius. 
That  is  sufficient ;  and  we  have  no  right  to  question  the  genius  for  want  of 
the  geniiltiy,  unless  the  former  ran  in  families,  or  could  be  bequeathed  with  a 
fortune,  which  is  not  the  case.  Were  it  so,  the  flowers  of  literature,  like  jewels 
and  embroidery,  would  be  confined  to  the  fashionable  circles ;  and  there  would 
be  no  pretenders  to  taste  or  elegance  but  those  whose  names  were  found  in 
the  court  list.  No  one  objects  to  Claude's  Landscapes  as  the  work  of  a  pastry- 
cook, or  withholds  from  Raphael  the  epithet  of  divine,  because  his  parents  were 
not  rich.  This  impertinence  is  confined  to  men  of  letters ;  the  evidence  of  the 
senses  baffles  the  envy  and  foppery  of  mankind.  No  quarter  ought  to  be  given 
to  this  aristocratic  tone  of  criticism  whenever  it  appears.  People  of  quality  are 
not  contented  with  carrj'ing  all  the  external  advantages  for  their  own  share,  but 
would  persuade  you  that  all  the  intellectual  ones  are  packed  up  in  the  same  bundle. 
Lord  Byron  was  a  later  instance  of  this  double  and  unwarrantable  style  of  pre- 
tension—  monstnim  ingeiis,  bifonnc.  He  could  not  endure  a  lord  who  was  not  a 
wit,  nor  a  poet  who  was  not  a  lord.  Nobody  but  himself  answered  to  his  own 
standard  of  perfection.  Mr.  Moore  carries  a  proxy  in  his  pocket  from  some  noble 
persons  to  estimate  literary  merit  by  the  same  rule.  Lady  Mary  calls  Fielding 
names,  but  she  afterwards  makes  atonement  by  doing  justice  to  his  frank,  free, 
hearty  nature,  where  he  says  "  his  spirits  gave  him  raptures  with  his  cook-maid, 
and  cheerfulness  when  he  was  starving  in  a  garret,  and  his  happy  constitution 
made  him  forget  every  thing  when  he  was  placed  before  a  venison-pasty  or  over 
a  flask  of  champagne."  She  does  not  want  shrewdness  and  spirit  when  her  petu- 
lance and  conceit  do  not  get  the  better  of  her,  and  she  has  done  ample  and 
merited  execution  on  Lord  Bolingbroke.  She  is,  however,  very  angry  at  the  free- 
doms taken  with  the  Great ;  smells  a  rat  in  this  indiscriminate  scribbling,  and 
the  familiarity  of  writers  with  the  reading  public  ;  and  inspired  by  her  Turkish 
costume,  foretells  a  French  and  English  revolution  as  the  consequence  of  transfer- 
ring the  patronage  of  letters  from  the  quality  to  the  mob,  and  of  supposing  that 
ordinary  writers  or  readers  can  have  any  notions  in  common  with  their  superiors. 


234  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

there  is  something  revolting  and  incredible  to  sense  in  the 
transition,  and  no  wonder  that,  aided  by  youth  and  warm  blood, 
and  the  flush  of  enthusiasm,  the  mind  contrives  for  a  long 
time  to  reject  it  with  disdain  and  loathing  as  a  monstrous  and 

5  improbable  fiction,  like  a  monkey  on  a  house-top,  that  is  loath, 
amidst  its  fine  discoveries  and  specious  antics,  to  be  tumbled 
headlong  into  the  street,  and  crushed  to  atoms,  the  sport  and 
laughter  of  the  multitude  ! 

The  change,  from  the  commencement  to  the  close  of  life, 

lo  appears  like  a  fable,  after  it  had  taken  place;  how  should  we 
treat  it  otherwise  than  as  a  chimera  before  it  has  come  to  pass  ? 
There  are  some  things  that  happened  so  long  ago,  places  or 
persons  we  have  formerly  seen,  of  which  such  dim  traces  re- 
main, we  hardly  know  whether  it  was  sleeping  or  waking  they 

15  occurred  ;  they  are  like  dreams  within  the  dream  of  life,  a  mist, 
a  film  before  the  eye  of  memory,  which,  as  we  try  to  recall  them 
more  distinctly,  elude  our  notice  altogether.  It  is  but  natural 
that  the  lone  interval  that  we  thus  look  back  upon,  should  have 
appeared  long  and  endless  in  prospect.    There  are  others  so 

20  distinct  and  fresh,  they  seem  but  of  yesterday  —  their  very 
vividness  might  be  deemed  a  pledge  of  their  permanence.  Then, 
however  far  back  our  impressions  may  go,  we  find  others  still 
older  (for  our  years  are  multiplied  in  youth) ;  descriptions  of 
scenes  that  we  had  read,  and  people  before  our  time,  Priam  and 

25  the  Trojan  war;  and  even  then,  Nestor  was  old  and  dwelt 
delighted  on  his  youth,  and  spoke  of  the  race,  of  heroes  that 
were  no  more ;  —  what  wonder  that,  seeing  this  long  line  of 
being  pictured  in  our  minds,  and  reviving  as  it  were  in  us,  we 
should  give  ourselves  involuntary  credit  for  an  indeterminate 

30  existence  ?  In  the  Cathedral  at  Peterborough  there  is  a  monu- 
ment to  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  at  which  I  used  to  gaze  when 
a  boy,  while  the  events  of  the  period,  all  that  had  happened 
since,  passed  in  review  before  me.  If  all  this  mass  of  feeling 
and  imagination  could  be  crowded  into  a  moment's  compass, 


THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH      235 

what  might  not  the  whole  of  life  be  supposed  to  contain  ?  We 
are  heirs  of  the  past ;  we  count  on  the  future  as  our  natural 
reversion.  Besides,  there  are  some  of  our  early  impressions  so 
exquisitely  tempered,  it  appears  that  they  must  always  last  — 
nothing  can  add  to  take  away  from  their  sweetness  and  purity  5 

—  the  first  breath  of  spring,  the  hyacinth  dipped  in  the  dew, 
the  mild  lustre  of  the  evening-star,  the  rainbow  after  a  storm 

—  while  we  have  the  full  enjoyment  of  these,  we  must  be 
young ;  and  what  can  ever  alter  us  in  this  respect  ?  Truth, 
friendship,  love,  books,  are  also  proof  against  the  canker  of  10 
time ;  and  while  we  live,  but  for  them,  we  can  never  grow  old. 
We  take  out  a  new  lease  of  existence  from  the  objects  on  which 
we  set  our  affections,  and  become  abstracted,  impassive,  immor- 
tal in  them.  We  cannot  conceive  how  certain  sentiments  should 
ever  decay  or  grow  cold  in  our  breasts ;  and,  consequently,  to  1 5 
maintain  them  in  their  first  youthful  glow  and  vigour,  the  flame 

of  life  must  continue  to  burn  as  bright  as  ever,  or  rather,  they 
are  the  fuel  that  feed  the  sacred  lamp,  that  kindle  "  the  purple 
light  of  love,"  and  spread  a  golden  cloud  around  our  heads ! 
Again,  we  not  only  flourish  and  survive  in  our  affections  (in  20 
which  we  will  not  listen  to  the  possibility  of  a  change,  any  more 
than  we  foresee  the  wrinkles  on  the  brow  of  a  mistress),  but 
we  have  a  farther  guarantee  against  the  thoughts  of  death  in 
our  favourite  studies  and  pursuits  and  in  their  continual  advance. 
Art  we  know  is  long;  life,  we  feel,  should  be  so  too.  We  see  25 
no  end  of  the  difficulties  we  have  to  encounter:  perfection  is 
slow  of  attainment,  and  we  must  have  time  to  accomplish  it  in. 
Rubens  complained  that  when  he  had  just  learned  his  art,  he 
was  snatched  away  from  it :  we  trust  we  shall  be  more  fortu- 
nate !  A  wrinkle  in  an  old  head  takes  whole  days  to  finish  it  30 
properly :  but  to  catch  ''  the  Raphael  grace,  the  Guido  air,"  no 
limit  should  be  put  to  our  endeavours.  What  a  prospect  for 
the  future !  What  a  task  we  have  entered  upon  !  and  shall  we 
be  arrested  in  the  middle  of  it  ?  We  do  not  reckon  our  time 


236  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

thus  employed  lost,  or  our  pains  thrown  away,  or  our  progress 
slow  —  we  do  not  droop  or  grow  tired,  but  "  gain  a  new  vigour 
at  our  endless  task  ; "  —  and  shall  Time  grudge  us  the  oppor- 
tunity to  finish  what  we  have  auspiciously  begun,  and  have 
5  formed  a  sort  of  compact  with  nature  to  achieve  ?  I'he  fame  of 
the  great  names  we  look  up  to  is  also  imperishable  ;  and  shall 
not  we,  who  contemplate  it  with  such  intense  yearnings,  imbibe 
a  portion  of  ethereal  fire,  the  divincE  particida  aurce^  which 
nothing  can  extinguish  ?   I  remember  to  have  looked  at  a  print 

10  of  Rembrandt  for  hours  together,  without  being  conscious  of  the 
flight  of  time,  trying  to  resolve  it  into  its  component  parts,  to 
connect  its  strong  and  sharp  gradations,  to  learn  the  secret  of 
its  reflected  lights,  and  found  neither  satiety  nor  pause  in  the 
prosecution  of  my  studies.    The  print  over  which  I  was  poring 

15  would  last  long  enough  ;  why  should  the  idea  in  my  mind,  which 
was  finer,  more  impalpable,  perish  before  it  ?  At  this,  I  redoubled 
the  ardour  of  my  pursuit,  and  by  the  very  subtlety  and  refine- 
nlent  of  my  inquiries,  seemed  to  bespeak  for  them  an  exemption 
from  corruption  and  the  rude  grasp  of  Death.^ 

20  Objects,  on  our  first  acquaintance  with  them,  have  that  single- 
ness and  integrity  of  impression  that  it  seems  as  if  nothing  could 
destroy  or  obliterate  them,  so  firmly  are  they  stamped  and  rivetted 
on  the  brain.  We  repose  on  them  with  a  sort  of  voluptuous 
indolence,  in  full  faith  and  boundless  confidence.     We  are  ab- 

25  sorbed  in  the  present  moment,  or  return  to  the  same  point 
—  idling  away  a  great  deal  of  time  in  youth,  thinking  we  have 
enough  to  spare.  There  is  often  a  local  feeling  in  the  air,  which 
is  as  fixed  as  if  it  were  marble  ;  we  loiter  in  dim  cloisters,  losing 
ourselves  in  thought  and  in  their  glimmering  arches ;   a  wind- 

30  ing  road  before  us  seems  as  long  as  the  journey  of  life,  and 
as  full  of  events.  Time  and  experience  dissipate  this  illusion ; 
and  by  reducing  them  to  detail,  circumscribe  the  limits  of  our 

1  Is  it  not  this  that  frequently  keeps  artists  alive  so  long,  viz.  the  constant  occu- 
pation of  their  minds  with  vivid  images,  with  little  of  the  -vcar-aiul-tcar  of  the  body? 


THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH      237 

expectations.  It  is  only  as  the  pageant  of  life  passes  by  and 
the  masques  turn  their  backs  upon  us,  that  we  see  through  the 
deception,  or  believe  that  the  train  will  have  an  end.  In  many 
cases,  the  slow  progress  and  monotonous  texture  of  our  lives, 
before  we  mingle  with  the  world  and  are  embroiled  in  its  affairs,  5 
has  a  tendency  to  aid  the  same  feeling.  We  have  a  difficulty, 
when  left  to  ourselves,  and  without  the  resource  of  books  or 
some  more  lively  pursuit,  to  "  beguile  the  slow  and  creeping 
hours  of  time,"  and  argue  that  if  it  moves  on  always  at  this 
tedious  snail's-pace,  it  can  never  come  to  an  end.  We  are  will-  10 
ing  to  skip  over  certain  portions  of  it  that  separate  us  from 
favourite  objects,  that  irritate  ourselves  at  the  unnecessary  delay. 
The  young  are  prodigal  of  life  from  a  superabundance  of  it ;  the 
old  are  tenacious  on  the  same  score,  because  they  have  little 
left,  and  cannot  enjoy  even  what  remains  of  it.  1 5 

P'or  my  part,  I  set  out  in  life  with  the  French  Revolution, 
and  that  event  had  considerable  influence  on  my  early  feelings, 
as  on  those  of  others.  Youth  was  then  doubly  such.  It  was 
the  dawn  of  a  new  era,  a  new  impulse  had  been  given  to  men's 
minds,  and  the  sun  of  Liberty  rose  upon  the  sun  of  Life  in  the  20 
same  day,  and  both  were  proud  to  run  their  race  together. 
Little  did  I  dream,  while  my  first  hopes  and  wishes  went  hand 
in  hand  with  those  of  the  human  race,  that  long  before  my  eyes 
should  close,  that  dawn  would  be  overcast,  and  set  once  more 
in  the  night  of  despotism  —  "  total  eclipse  !  "  Happy  that  I  did  25 
not.  I  felt  for  years,  and  during  the  best  part  of  my  existence, 
heart-iohole  in  that  cause,  and  triumphed  in  the  trumphs  over 
the  enemies  of  man  !  At  that  time,  while  the  fairest  aspirations  of 
the  human  mind  seemed  about  to  be  realized,  ere  the  image  of 
man  was  defaced  and  his  breast  mangled  in  scorn,  philosophy  30 
took  a  higher,  poetry  could  afford  a  deeper  range.  At  that  time, 
to  read  the  Robbers,  was  indeed  delicious,  and  to  hear 

"  From  the  dungeon  of  the  tower  time-rent, 
That  fearful  voice,  a  famish'd  father's  cry," 


238  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

could  be  borne  only  amidst  the  fulness  of  hope,  the  crash  of 
the  fall  of  the  strong  holds  of  power,  and  the  exulting  sounds 
of  the  march  of  human  freedom.  What  feelings  the  death-scene 
in  Don  Carlos  sent  into  the  soul !  In  that  headlong  career  of 
5  lofty  enthusiasm,  and  the  joyous  opening  of  the  prospects  of 
the  world  and  our  own,  the  thought  of  death  crossing  it,  smote 
doubly  cold  upon  the  mind  ;  there  was  a  stifling  sense  of  oppres- 
sion and  confinement,  an  impatience  of  our  present  knowledge, 
a  desire  to  grasp  the  whole  of  our  existence  in  one  strong 

10  embrace,  to  sound  the  mystery  of  life  and  death,  and  in  order 
to  put  an  end  to  the  agony  of  doubt  and  dread,  to  burst  through 
our  prison-house,  and  confront  the  King  of  Terrors  in  his  grisly 
palace !  ...  As  I  was  writing  out  this  passage,  my  miniature- 
picture  when  a  child  lay  on  the  mantle-piece,  and  I  took  it  out 

15  of  the  case  to  look  at  it.  I  could  perceive  few  traces  of  myself 
in  it ;  but  there  was  the  same  placid  brow,  the  dimpled  mouth, 
the  same  timid,  inquisitive  glance  as  ever.  But  its  careless  smile 
did  not  seem  to  reproach  me  with  having  become  recreant  to 
the  sentiments  that  were  then  sown  in  my  mind,  or  with  having 

20  written  a  sentence  that  could  call  up  a  blush  in  this  image  of 
ingenuous  youth  ! 

"  That  time  is  past  with  all  its  giddy  raptures."  Since  the 
future  was  barred  to  my  progress^  I  have  turned  for  consolation 
to  the  past,  gathering  up  the  fragments  of  my  early  recollections, 

25  and  putting  them  into  form  that  might  live.  It  is  thus,  that 
when  we  find  our  personal  and  substantial  identity  vanishing 
from  us,  we  strive  to  gain  a  reflected  and  substituted  one  in  our 
thoughts  :  we  do  not  like  to  perish  wholly,  and  wish  to  bequeath 
our  names  at  least  to  posterity.  As  long  as  we  can  keep  alive  our 

30  cherished  thoughts  and  nearest  interests  in  the  minds  of  others, 
we  do  not  appear  to  have  retired  altogether  from  the  stage,  we 
still  occupy  a  place  in  the  estimation  of  mankind,  exercise  a 
powerful  influence  over  them,  and  it  is  only  our  bodies  that  are 
trampled  into  dust  or  dispersed  to  air.    Our  darling  speculations 


THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH       239 

still  find  favour  and  encouragement,  and  we  make  as  good  a 
figure  in  the  eyes  of  our  descendants,  nay,  perhaps,  a  better 
than  we  did  in  our  life-time.  This  is  one  point  gained ;  the 
demands  of  our  self-love  are  so  far  satisfied.  Besides,  if  by 
the  proofs  of  intellectual  superiority  we  survive  ourselves  in  5 
this  world,  by  exemplary  virtue  or  unblemished  faith,  we  are 
taught  to  ensure  an  interest  in  another  and  a  higher  state  of 
being,  and  to  anticipate  at  the  same  time  the  applauses  of  men 
and  angels. 

"  Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries ;  10 

Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires." 

As  we  advance  in  life,  we  acquire  a  keener  sense  of  the  value 
of  time.    Nothing  else,  indeed,  seems  of  any  consequence ;  and 
we  become  misers  in  this  respect.    We  try  to  arrest  its  few  last 
tottering  steps,  and  to  make  it  linger  on  the  brink  of  the  grave.  15 
We  can  never  leave  off  wondering  how  that  which  has  ever  been 
should  cease  to  be,  and  would  still  live  on,  that  we  may  wonder 
at  our  own  shadow,  and  when  "  all  the  life  of  life  is  flown," 
dwell  on  the  retrospect  of  the  past.    This  is  accompanied  by  a 
mechanical  tenaciousness  of  whatever  we  possess,  by  a  distrust  20 
and  a  sense  of  fallacious  hollowness  in  all  we  see.     Instead  of 
the  full,  pulpy  feeling  of  youth,  every  thing  is  flat  and  insipid. 
The  world  is  a  painted  witch,  that  puts  us  off  with  false  shews 
and  tempting  appearances.     The  ease,  the  jocund  gaiety,  the 
unsuspecting  security  of  youth  are  fled :    nor  can  we,  without  25 
flying  in  the  face  of  common  sense, 

"  From  the  last  dregs  of  life,  hope  to  receive 
What  its  first  sprightly  runnings  could  not  give." 

If  we  can  slip  out  of  the  world  without  notice  or  mischance, 
can  tamper  with  bodily  infirmity,  and  frame  our  minds  to  the  30 
becoming  composure  of  still-life,  before  we  sink  into  total  insen- 
sibility, it  is  as  much  as  we  ought  to  expect.    We  do  not  in  the 
regular  course  of  nature  die  all  at  once :   we  have  mouldered 


240  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

away  gradually  long  before ;  faculty  after  faculty,  attachment 
after  attachment,  we  are  torn  from  ourselves  piece-meal  while 
living ;  year  after  year  takes  something  from  us ;  and  death 
only  consigns  the  last  remnant  of  what  we  were  to  the  grave. 
5  The  revulsion  is  not  so  great,  and  a  quiet  euthanasia  is  a 
winding-up  of  the  plot,  that  is  not  out  of  reason  or  nature. 
That  we  should  thus  in  a  manner  outlive  ourselves,  and 
dwindle  imperceptibly  into  nothing,  is  not  surprising,  when  even 
in  our  prime  the  strongest  impressions  leave  so  little  traces  of 

lo  themselves  behind,  and  the  last  object  is  driven  out  by  the  suc- 
ceeding one.  How  little  effect  is  produced  on  us  at  any  time 
by  the  books  we  have  read,  the  scenes  we  have  witnessed,  the 
sufferings  we  have  gone  through !  Think  only  of  the  variety 
of  feelings  we  experience  in  reading  an  interesting  romance,  or 

1 5  being  present  at  a  fine  play  — -  what  beauty,  what  sublimity, 
what  soothing,  what  heart-rending  emotions !  You  would  sup- 
pose these  would  last  for  ever,  or  at  least  subdue  the  mind  to 
a  correspondent  tone  and  harmony  —  while  we  turn  over  the 
page,  while  the  scene  is  passing  before  us,  it  seems  as  if  nothing 

20  could  ever  after  shake  our  resolution,  that  "  treason  domestic, 
foreign  levy,  nothing  could  touch  us  farther !  "  The  first  splash 
of  mud  we  get,  on  entering  the  street,  the  first  pettifogging  shop- 
keeper that  cheats  us  out  of  two-pence,  and  the  whole  vanishes 
clean  out  of  our  remembrance,  and  we  become  the  idle  prey 

25  of  the  most  petty  and  annoying  circumstances.  The  mind  soars 
by  an  effort  to  the  grand  and  lofty :  it  i^  at  home,  in  the  grov- 
elling, the  disagreeable,  and  the  little.  This  happens  in  the  height 
and  hey-day  of  our  existence,  when  novelty  gives  a  stronger  im- 
pulse to  the  blood  and  takes  a  faster  hold  of  the  brain,  (I  have 

30  known  the  impression  on  coming  out  of  a  gallery  of  pictures 
then  last  half  a  day)  —  as  we  grow  old,  we  become  more  feeble 
and  querulous,  every  object  "  reverbs  its  own  hollowness,"  and 
both  worlds  are  not  enough  to  satisfy  the  peevish  importunity 
and  extravagant  presumption  of  our  desires !    There  are  a  few 


THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH       24I 

superior,  happy  beings,  who  are  born  with  a  temper  exempt 
from  every  trifling  annoyance.  'I'his  spirit  sits  serene  and  smiling 
as  in  its  native  skies,  and  a  divine  harmony  (whether  heard  or 
not)  plays  around  them.  This  is  to  be  at  peace.  Without  this, 
it  is  in  vain  to  fly  into  deserts,  or  to  build  a  hermitage  on  the  5 
top  of  rocks,  if  regret  and  ill-humour  follow  us  there  :  and  with 
this,  it  is  needless  to  make  the  experiment.  The  only  true  re- 
tirement is  that  of  the  heart ;  the  only  true  leisure  is  the  repose 
of  the  passions.  To  such  persons  it  makes  litde  difference 
whether  they  are  young  or  old  ;  and  they  die  as  they  have  10 
lived,  with  graceful  resignation. 


ON   READING  NEW  BOOKS 

"  And  what  of  this  new  book,  that  the  whole  world  make  such  a  rout 
about  ? "  —  Sterne. 

I  cannot  understand  the  rage  manifested  by  the  greater  part 
of  the  world  for  reading  New  Books.  If  the  public  had  read 
all  those  that  have  gone  before,  1  can  conceive  how  they  should 
not  wish  to  read  the  same  work  twice  over;  but  when  I  con- 

5  sider  the  countless  volumes  that  lie  unopened,  unregarded, 
unread,  and  unthought-of,  I  cannot  enter  into  the  pathetic  com- 
plaints that  I  hear  made,  that  Sir  Walter  writes  no  more  —  that 
the  press  is  idle  —  that  Lord  Byron  is  dead.  If  I  have  not  read 
a  book  before,  it  is,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  new  to  me, 

ID  whether  it  was  printed  yesterday  or  three  hundred  years  ago. 
If  it  be  urged  that  it  has  no  modern,  passing  incidents,  and  is 
out  of  date  and  old-fashioned,  then  it  is  so  much  the  newer :  it 
is  farther  removed  from  other  works  that  I  have  lately  read, 
from  the  familiar  routine  of  ordinary  life,  and  makes  so  much 

IS  more  addition  to  my  knowledge.  But  many  people  would  as 
soon  think  of  putting  on  old  armour,  as  of  taking  up  a  book 
not  published  within  the  last  month,  or  year  at  the  utmost. 
There  is  a  fashion  in  reading  as  well  as  in  dress,  which  lasts 
only  for  the  season.    One  would  imagine  that  books  were,  like 

20  women,  the  worse  for  being  old ;  ^  that  they  have  a  pleasure  in 
being  read  for  the  first  time  ;  that  they  open  their  leaves  more 
cordially ;  that  the  spirit  of  enjoyment  wears  out  with  the  spirit 
of  novelty ;  and  that,  after  a  certain  age,  it  is  high  time  to  put 
them  on  the  shelf.    This  conceit  seems  to  be  followed  up  in 

1  "  Laws  are  not  like  women,  the  worse  for  being  old." —  The  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham's Speech  in  the  House  of  Lords,  in  Charles  the  Second'' s  time. 

242 


ON  READING  NEW  BOOKS  243 

practice.  What  is  it  to  me  that  another  —  that  hundreds  or 
thousands  have  in  all  ages  read  a  work  ?  Is  it  on  this  account 
the  less  likely  to  give  me  pleasure,  because  it  has  delighted  so 
many  others  ?  Or  can  I  taste  this  pleasure  by  proxy  ?  Or  am 
I  in  any  degree  the  wiser  for  their  knowledge  ?  Yet  this  might  5 
appear  to  be  the  inference.  Their  having  read  the  work  may 
be  said  to  act  upon  us  by  sympathy,  and  the  knowledge  which 
so  many  other  persons  have  of  its  contents  deadens  our  curiosity 
and  interest  altogether.  We  set  aside  the  subject  as  one  on 
which  others  have  made  up  their  minds  for  us  (as  if  we  really  10 
could  have  ideas  in  their  heads),  and  are  quite  on  the  alert  for 
the  next  new  work,  teeming  hot  from  the  press,  which  we  shall 
be  the  first  to  read,  criticise,  and  pass  an  opinion  on.  Oh, 
delightful !  To  cut  open  the  leaves,  to  inhale  the  fragrance  of 
the  scarcely  dry  paper,  to  examine  the  type,  to  see  who  is  the  15 
printer  (which  is  some  clue  to  the  value  that  is  set  upon  the 
work),  to  launch  out  into  regions  of  thought  and  invention 
never  trod  till  now,  and  to  explore  characters  that  never  met  a 
human  eye  before  —  this  is  a  luxury  worth  sacrificing  a  dinner- 
party, or  a  few  hours  of  a  spare  morning  to.  Who,  indeed,  ::o 
when  the  work  is  critical  and  full  of  expectation,  would  venture 
to  dine  out,  or  to  face  a  coterie  of  blue  stockings  in  the  even- 
ing, without  having  gone  through  this  ordeal,  or  at  least  without 
hastily  turning  over  a  few  of  the  first  pages,  while  dressing,  to 
be  able  to  say  that  the  beginning  does  not  promise  much,  or  25 
to  tell  the  name  of  the  heroine .-' 

A  new  work  is  something  in  our  power :  we  mount  the  bench, 
and  sit  in  judgment  on  it;  we  can  damn  or  recommend  it  to 
others  at  pleasure,  can  decry  or  extol  it  to  the  skies,  and  can 
give  an  answer  to  those  who  have  not  yet  read  it  and  expect  an  30 
account  of  it ;  and  thus  shew  our  shrewdness  and  the  inde- 
pendence of  our  taste  before  the  world  have  had  time  to  form 
an  opinion.  If  we  cannot  write  ourselves,  we  become,  by 
busying  ourselves  about  it,  a  kind  of  accessaries  after  the  fact. 


244  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

Though  not  the  parent  of  the  bantling  that  "  has  just  come  into 
this  breathing  world,  scarce  half  made  up,"  without  the  aid  of 
criticism  and  puffing,  yet  we  are  the  gossips  and  foster-nurses 
on  the  occasion,  with  all  the  mysterious  significance  and  self- 

5  importance  of  the  tribe.  If  we  wait,  we  must  take  our  report 
from  others ;  if  we  make  haste,  we  may  dictate  our's  to  them. 
It  is  not  a  race,  then,  for  priority  of  information,  but  for 
precedence  in  tattling  and  dogmatising.  The  work  last  out 
is  the  first  that  people  talk  and  inquire  about.    It  is  the  sub- 

lo  ject  on  the  tapis  —  the  cause  that  is  pending.  It  is  the  last 
candidate  for  success  (other  claims  have  been  disposed  of), 
and  appeals  for  this  success  to  us,  and  us  alone.  Our  pred- 
ecessors can  have  nothing  to  say  to  this  question,  however 
they  may  have  anticipated  us  on  others ;   future  ages,  in  all 

15  probability,  will  not  trouble  their  heads  about  it;  we  are  the 
panel.  How  hard,  then,  not  to  avail  ourselves  of  our  immediate 
privilege  to  give  sentence  of  life  or  death  —  to  seem  in  ignorance 
of  what  every  one  else  is  full  of  —  to  be  behind-hand  with  the 
polite,  the  knowing,  and  fashionable  part  of  mankind  —  to  be  at 

20  a  loss  and  dumb-founded,  when  all  around  us  are  in  their 
glory,  and  figuring  away,  on  no  other  ground  than  that  of 
having  read  a  work  that  we  have  not !  Books  that  are  to  be 
written  hereafter  cannot  be  criticised  by  us ;  those  that  were 
written  formerly  have  been  criticised  long  ago :  but  a  new  book 

25  is  the  property,  the  prey  of  ephemeral  criticism,  which  it  darts 
triumphantly  upon ;  there  is  a  raw  thin  air  of  ignorance  and 
uncertainty  about  it,  not  filled  up  by  any  recorded  opinion; 
and  curiosity,  impertinence,  and  vanity  rush  eagerly  into  the 
vacuum.     A  new  book  is  the  fair  field  for  petulance  and  cox- 

30  combry  to  gather  laurels  in  —  the  but  set  up  for  removing 
opinion  to  aim  at.  Can  we  wonder,  then,  tliat  the  circulating 
libraries  are  besieged  by  literary  dowagers  and  their  grand- 
daughters, when  a  new  novel  is  announced  ?  That  Mail-Coach 
copies  of  the  Kdinburgh  Review  are  or  were  coveted.''    That 


ON  READING  NEW  BOOKS  245 

the  Manuscript  of  the  Waverley  romances  is  sent  abroad  in 
time  for  the  French,  German,  or  even  Italian  translation  to 
appear  on  the  same  day  as  the  original  work,  so  that  the 
longing  Continental  public  may  not  be  kept  waiting  an  instant 
longer  than  their  fellow-readers  in  the  English  metropolis,  5 
which  would  be  as  tantalising  and  insupportable  as  a  little  girl 
being  kept  without  her  new  frock,  when  her  sister's  is  just  come 
home  and  is  the  talk  and  admiration  of  every  one  in  the  house  ? 
To  be  sure,  there  is  something  in  the  taste  of  the  times ;  a 
modern  work  is  expressly  adapted  to  modern  readers.  It  10 
appeals  to  our  direct  experience,  and  to  well-known  subjects ; 
it  is  part  and  parcel  of  the  world  around  us,  and  is  drawn  from 
the  same  sources  as  our  daily  thoughts.  There  is,  therefore, 
so  far,  a  natural  or  habitual  sympathy  between  us  and  the 
literature  of  the  day,  though  this  is  a  different  consideration  15 
from  the  mere  circumstance  of  novelty.  An  author  now  alive 
has  a  right  to  calculate  upon  the  living  public :  he  cannot  count 
upon  the  dead,  nor  look  forward  with  much  confidence  to  those 
that  are  unborn.  Neither,  however,  is  it  true  that  we  are  eager 
to  read  all  new  books  alike :  we  turn  from  them  with  a  certain  20 
feeling  of  distaste  -and  distrust,  unless  they  are  recommended 
to  us  by  some  peculiar  feature  or  obvious  distinction.  Only 
young  ladies  from  the  boarding-school,  or  milliners'  girls, 
read  all  the  new  novels  that  come  out.  It  must  be  spoken  of 
or  against ;  the  writer's  name  must  be  well  known  or  a  great  25 
secret ;  it  must  be  a  topic  of  discourse  and  a  mark  for  criticism 

—  that  is,  it  must  be  likely  to  bring  us  into  notice  in  some  way 

—  or  we  take  no  notice  of  it.  There  is  a  mutual  and  tacit 
understanding  on  this  head.  We  can  no  more  read  all  the  new 
books  that  appear,  than  we  can  read  all  the  old  ones  that  have  30 
disappeared  from  time  to  time.  A  question  may  be  started 
here,  and  pursued  as  far  as  needful,  whether,  if  an  old  and 
worm-eaten  Manuscript  were  discovered  at  the  present  moment, 

it  would  be  sought  after  with  the  same  avidity  as  a  new  and 


246  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

hot-pressed  poem,  or  other  popular  work  ?  Not  generally, 
certainly,  though  by  a  few  with  perhaps  greater  zeal.  For  it 
would  not  affect  present  interests,  or  amuse  present  fancies,  or 
touch  on  present  manners,  or  fall  in  with  the  public  egotism  in 

5  any  way :  it  would  be  the  work  either  of  some  obscure  author — 
in  which  case  it  would  want  the  principle  of  excitement ;  or  of 
some  illustrious  name,  whose  style  and  manner  would  be 
already  familiar  to  those  most  versed  in  the  subject,  and  his 
fame  established  —  so  that,  as  a  matter  of  comment  and  con- 

10  troversy,  it  would  only  go  to  account  on  the  old  score :  there 
would  be  no  room  for  learned  feuds  and  heart-burnings.  Was 
there  not  a  Manuscript  of  Cicero's  talked  of  as  having  been 
discovered  about  a  year  ago  ?  But  we  have  heard  no  more  of 
it.    There  have  been  several  other  cases,  more  or  less  in  point, 

15  in  our  time  or  near  it.  A  Noble  Lord  (which  may  serve  to 
shew  at  least  the  interest  taken  in  books  not  for  beitig  new) 
some  time  ago  gave  ;^2ooo  for  a  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  the 
Decameron  :  but  did  he  read  it  ?  It  has  been  a  fashion  also  of 
late  for  noble  and  wealthy  persons  to  go  to  a  considerable 

20  expense  in  ordering  reprints  of  the  old  Chronicles  and  black- 
letter  works.  Does  not  this  rather  prove  that  the  books  did 
not  circulate  very  rapidly  or  extensively,  or  such  extraordinary 
patronage  and  liberality  would  not  have  been  necessary  ?  Mr. 
Thomas  Taylor,  at  the  instance,  I  believe,  of  the  old  Duke  of 

25  Norfolk,  printed  fifty  copies  in  quarto  of  a  translation  of  the 
works  of  Plato  and  Aristotle.  He  did  not  choose  that  a  larger 
impression  should  be  struck  off,  lest  these  authors  should 
get  into  the  hands  of  the  vulgar.  There  was  no  danger  of 
a  run  in  that  way.     I  tried  to  read  some  of  the  Dialogues 

30  in  the  translation  of  Plato,  but,  I  confess,  could  make 
nothing  of  it :   "  the  logic  was  so  different  from  ours !  "  ^    A 

1  An  expression  borrowed  from  a  voluble  German  scholar,  who  gave  this  as  an 
excuse  for  not  translating  the  Critique  of  Pure  Reason  into  English.  He  might  as 
well  have  said  seriously,  that  the  Rule  of  Three  in  German  was  different  from 


ON  READING  NEW  BOOKS  247 

startling  experiment  was  made  on  this  sort  of  retrospective 
curiosity,  in  the  case  of  Ireland's  celebrated  Shakspeare  for- 
gery. The  public  there  certainly  manifested  no  backwardness 
nor  lukewarmness :  the  enthusiasm  was  equal  to  the  folly. 
But  then  the  spirit  exhibited  on  this  occasion  was  partly  5 
critical  and  polemical,  and  it  is  a  problem  whether  an  actual 
and  undoubted  play  of  Shakspeare's  would  have  excited  the 
same  ferment ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  Shakspeare  is  an 
essential  modern.  People  read  and  go  to  see  his  real  plays, 
as  well  as  his  pretended  ones.  The  fuss  made  about  Ossian  10 
is  another  test  to  refer  to.  It  was  its  being  the  supposed 
revival  of  an  old  work  (known  only  by  scattered  fragments 
or  lingering  tradition)  which  gave  it  its  chief  interest,  though 
there  was  also  a  good  deal  of  mystery  and  quackery  concerned 

our's.  Mr.  Taylor  (the  Platonist,  as  he  was  called)  was  a  singular  instance  of  a 
person  in  our  time  believing  in  the  heathen  mythology.  He  had  a  very  beautiful 
wife.  An  impudent  Frenchman,  who  came  over  to  London,  and  lodged  in  the 
same  house,  made  love  to  her,  by  pretending  to  worship  her  as  Venus,  and  so 
thought  to  turn  the  tables  on  our  philosopher.  I  once  spent  an  evening  with  this 
gentleman  at  Mr.  G.  D.'s  chambers,  in  Cliffords-inn,  (where  there  was  no  ex- 
clusion of  persons  or  opinions),  and  where  we  had  pipes  and  tobacco,  porter,  and 
bread  and  cheese  for  supper.  Mr.  Taylor  never  smoked,  never  drank  porter,  and 
had  an  aversion  to  cheese.  1  remember  he  shewed  with  some  triumph  two  of  his 
fingers,  which  had  been  bent  so  that  he  had  lost  the  use  of  them,  in  copying  out 
the  manuscripts  of  Proclus  and  Plotinus  in  a  fine  Greek  hand.  Such  are  the  tro- 
phies of  human  pride  !  It  would  be  well  if  our  deep  studies  often  produced  no 
other  crookedness  and  deformity !  1  endeavoured  (but  in  vain)  to  learn  some- 
thing from  the  heathen  philosopher  as  to  Plato's  doctrine  of  abstract  ideas  being 
the  foundation  of  particular  ones,  which  I  suspect  has  more  truth  in  it  than  we 
moderns  are  willing  to  admit.  Another  friend  of  mine  once  breakfasted  with 
Mr.  D.  (the  most  amiable  and  absent  of  hosts),  when  there  was  no  butter,  no 
knife  to  cut  the  loaf  with,  and  the  tea-pot  was  without  a  spout.  My  friend,  after 
a  few  immaterial  ceremonies,  adjourned  to  Peel's  coffee-house,  close  by,  where 
he  regaled  himself  on  buttered  toast,  coffee,  and  the  newspaper  of  the  day  (a 
newspaper  possessed  some  interest  when  we  were  young)  ;  and  the  only  inter- 
ruption to  his  satisfaction  was  the  fear  that  his  host  might  suddenly  enter,  and  be 
shocked  at  his  imperfect  hospitality.  He  would  probably  forget  the  circumstance 
altogether.  I  am  afraid  that  this  veteran  of  the  old  school  has  not  received  many 
proofs  of  the  archaism  of  the  prevailing  taste  ;  and  that  the  corrections  in  his 
History  of  the  University  of  Cambridge  have  cost  him  more  than  the  public 
will  ever  repay  him  for. 


248  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

along  with  the  din  and  stir  of  national  jealousy  and  pretension. 
Who  reads  Ossian  now  ?  It  is  one  of  the  reproaches  brought 
against  Buonaparte  that  he  was  fond  of  it  when  young.  I 
cannot  for  myself  see  the  objection.  There  is  no  doubt  an 
5  antiquarian  spirit  always  at  work,  and  opposed  to  the  spirit  of 
novelty-hunting;  but,  though  opposed,  it  is  scarcely  a  match 
for  it  in  a  general  and  popular  point  of  view.  It  is  not  long 
ago  that  I  happened  to  be  suggesting  a  new  translation  of 
Don  Quixote  to  an  enterprising  bookseller;    and  his  answer 

10  was,  —  "  We  want  new  Don  Quixotes."  I  believe  I  deprived 
the  same  active-minded  person  of  a  night's  rest,  by  telling 
him  there  was  the  beginning  of  another  novel  by  Goldsmith 
in  existence.  This,  if  it  could  be  procured,  would  satisfy  both 
tastes  for  the  new  and  the  old  at  once.     I  fear  it  is  but  a 

1 5  fragment,  and  that  we  must  wait  till  a  new  Goldsmith  appears. 
We  may  observe  of  late  a  strong  craving  after  Memoirs  and 
Lives  of  the  Dead.  But  these,  it  may  be  remarked,  savour  so 
much  of  the  real  and  familiar,  that  the  persons  described  differ 
from  us  only  in  being  dead,  which  is  a  reflection  to  our  advan- 

20  tage  :  or,  if  remote  and  romantic  in  their  interest  and  adventures, 
they  require  to  be  bolstered  up  in  some  measure  by  the  embellish- 
ments of  modem  style  and  criticism.  The  accounts  of  Petrarch 
and  Laura,  of  Abelard  and  Eloise,  have  a  lusciousness  and 
warmth  in  the  subject  which  contrast  quaintly  and  pointedly 

25  with  the  coldness  of  the  grave ;  and,  after  all,  we  prefer  Pope's 
Eloise  and  Abelard  with  the  modern  dress  and  flourishes,  to  the 
sublime  and  affecting  simplicity  of  the  original  Letters. 

In  some  very  just  and  agreeable  reflections  on  the  story  of 
Abelard  and  Eloise,  in  a  late  number  of  a  contemporary  publi- 

30  cation,  there  is  a  quotation  of  some  lines  from  Lucan,  which 
Eloise  is  said  to  have  repeated  in  broken  accents  as  she  was 
advancing  to  the  altar  to  receive  the  veil : 

"  O  maximc  conjux  ! 
O  thalamis  indigne  meis !    Hoc  juris  habebat 


ON  READING  NEW  BOOKS  249 

In  tantum  fortuna  caput?    Cur  impia  nupsi, 
Si  miseium  factura  fui  ?    Nunc  accipe  paenas, 
Sed  quas  sponte  luam."  —  Pharsalia,  lib.  8. 

This  speech,  quoted  by  another  person,  on  such  an  occasion, 
might  seem  cold  and  pedantic ;  but  from  tlie  mouth  of  the  pas-  5 
sionate  and  unaffected  Eloise  it  cannot  bear  that  interpretation. 
What  sounding  lines !    What  a  pomp,  and  yet  what  a  familiar 
boldness  in  their  application  —  "  proud  as  when  blue  Iris  bends  1 " 
The  reading  this  account  brought  forcibly  to  mind  what  has 
struck  me  often  before  —  the  unreasonableness  of  the  complaint  10 
we  constantly  hear  of  the  ignorance  and  barbarism  of  former 
ages,  and  the  folly  of  restricting  all  refinement  and  hterary  ele- 
gance to  our  own.    We  are,  indeed,  indebted  to  the  ages  that 
have  gone  before  us,  and  could  not  well  do  without  them.    But 
in  all  ages  there  will  be  found  still  others  that  have  gone  before  i  s 
with  nearly  equal  lustre  and  advantage,  though  by  distance  and 
the  intervention  of  multiplied  excellence,  this  lustre  may  be 
dimmed  or  forgotten.    Had  it  then  no  existence?    We  might, 
with  the  same  reason,  suppose  that  the  horizon  is  the  last  bound- 
ary and  verge  of  the  round  earth.    Still,  as  we  advance,  it  20 
recedes  from  us ;  and  so  time  from  its  store-house  pours  out 
an  endless  succession  of  the  productions  of  art  and  genius  ;  and 
the  farther  we  explore  the  obscurity,  other  trophies  and  other 
land-marks  rise  up.    It  is  only  our  ignorance  that  fixes  a  limit 
—  as  the  mist  gathered  round  the  mountain's  brow  makes  us  25 
fancy  we  are  treading  the  edge  of  the  universe  !    Here  was 
Heloise  living  at  a  period  when  monkish  indolence  and  super- 
stition were  at  their  height  —  in  one  of  those  that  are  emphati- 
cally called  the  dark  ages ;  and  yet,  as  she  is  led  to  the  altar  to 
make  her  last  fatal  vow,  expressing  her  feelings  in  language  30 
quite  natural  to  her,  but  from  which  the  most  accomplished  and 
heroic  of  our  modem  females  would  shrink  back  with  pretty 
and  affected  wonder  and  affright.    The  glowing  and  impetuous 
lines  which  she  murmured,  as  she  passed  on,  with  spontaneous 


250  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

and  rising  enthusiasm,  were  engraven  on  her  heart,  familiar  to 
her  as  her  daily  thoughts ;  her  mind  must  have  been  full  of 
them  to  overflowing,  and  at  the  same  time  enriched  with  other 
stores  and  sources  of  knowledge  equally  elegant  and  impressive  ; 
5  and  we  persist,  notwithstanding  this  and  a  thousand  similar  cir- 
cumstances, in  indulging  our  surprise  how  people  could  exist, 
and  see,  and  feel,  in  those  days,  without  having,  access  to  our 
opportunities  and  acquirements,  and  how  Shakespeare  wrote 
long  after,  in  a  barbarous  age !   The  mystery  in  this  case  is  of 

10  our  own  making.  We  are  struck  with  astonishment  at  finding 
a  fine  moral  sentiment  or  a  noble  image  nervously  expressed  in 
an  author  of  the  age  of  Queen  Elizabeth ;  not  considering  that, 
independently  of  nature  and  feeling,  which  are  the  same  in  all 
periods,  the  writers  of  that  day,  who  were  generally  men  of 

15  education  and  learning,  had  such  models  before  them  as  the 
one  that  has  been  just  referred  to  —  were  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  those  masters  of  classic  thought  and  language,  compared 
with  whom,  in  all  that  relates  to  the  artificial  graces  of  compo- 
sition, the  most  studied  of  the  moderns  are  little  better  than 

20  Goths  and  Vandals.  It  is  true,  we  have  lost  sight  of,  and  neg- 
lected the  former,  because  the  latter  have,  in  a  great  degree, 
superseded  them,  as  the  elevations  nearest  to  us  intercept  those 
farthest  off ;  but  our  not  availing  ourselves  of  this  vantage- 
ground  is  no  reason  why  our  forefathers  should  not  (who  had 

25  not  our  superfluity  of  choice),  and  most  assuredly  they  did 
study  and  cherish  the  precious  fragments  of  antiquity,  collected 
together  in  their  time,  "'  like  sunken  wreck  and  sumless  treas- 
uries ;  "  and  while  they  did  this,  we  need  be  at  no  loss  to  account 
for  any  examples  of  grace,  of  force,  or  dignity  in  their  writings, 

30  if  these  must  always  be  traced  back  to  a  previous  source.  One 
age  cannot  understand  how  another  could  subsist  without  its 
lights,  as  one  country  thinks  every  other  must  be  poor  for  want 
of  its  physical  productions.  This  is  a  narrow  and  superficial 
view  of  the  subject ;    we  should  by  all  means  rise  above  it. 


ON  READING  NEW  BOOKS  25  I 

I  am  not  for  devoting  the  whole  of  our  time  to  the  study  of 
the  classics,  or  of  any  other  set  of  writers,  to  the  exclusion  and 
neglect  of  nature ;  but  I  think  we  should  turn  our  thoughts 
enough  that  way  to  convince  us  of  the  existence  of  genius  and 
learning  before  our  time,  and  to  cure  us  of  an  overweening  con-  5 
ceit  of  ourselves,  and  of  a  contemptuous  opinion  of  the  world 
at  large.  Every  civilised  age  and  country  (and  of  these  there  is 
not  one,  but  a  hundred)  has  its  literature,  its  arts,  its  comforts, 
large  and  ample,  though  we  may  know  nothing  of  them  ;  nor  is 
it  (except  for  our  own  sakes)  important  that  we  should.  10 

Books  have  been  so  multiplied  in  our  days  (like  the  Vanity 
Fair  of  knowledge),  and  we  have  made  such  progress  beyond 
ourselves  in  some  points,  that  it  seems  at  first  glance  as  if  we 
had  monopolised  every  possible  advantage,  and  the  rest  of  the 
world  must  be  left  destitute  and  in  darkness.  This  is  the  cock-  15 
neyism  (with  leave  be  it  spoken)  of  the  nineteenth  century.  There 
is  a  tone  of  smartness  and  piquancy  in  modem  writing,  to  which 
former  examples  may,  in  one  sense,  appear  flat  and  pedantic. 
Our  allusions  are  more  pointed  and  personal :  the  ancients  are, 
in  this  respect,  formal  and  prosaic  personages.  Some  one,  not  20 
long  ago,  in  this  vulgar,  shallow  spirit  of  criticism  (which  sees 
every  thing  from  its  own  point  of  view),  said  that  the  tragedies 
of  Sophocles  and  yEschylus  were  about  as  good  as  the  pieces 
brought  out  at  Sadler's  Wells  or  the  Adelphi  Theatre.  An  ora- 
tion of  Demosthenes  is  thought  drj^  and  meagre,  because  it  is  25 
not  "  full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances :  "  one  of  Cicero's 
is  objected  to  as  flimsy  and  extravagant,  for  the  same  reason. 
There  is  a  style  in  one  age  which  does  not  fall  in  with  the  taste 
of  the  public  in  another,  as  it  requires  greater  effeminacy  and 
softness,  greater  severity  or  simplicity,  greater  force  or  refine-  30 
ment.  Guido  was  more  admired  than  Raphael  in  his  day,  because 
the  manners  were  grown  softer  without  the  strength  :  Sir  Peter 
Lely  was  thought  in  his  to  have  eclipsed  Vandyke  —  an  opinion 
that  no  one  holds  at  present :  Holbein's  faces  must  be  allowed 


252  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

to  be  very  different  from  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence's  —  yet  the  one 
was  the  favourite  painter  of  Henry  VIII.,  as  the  other  is  of 
George  IV.  What  should  we  say  in  our  time  to  the  euphuism 
of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  when  style  was  made  a  riddle,  and  the 
5  court  talked  in  conundrums .?  This,  as  a  novelty  and  a  trial  of 
the  wits,  might  take  for  a  while :  afterwards,  it  could  only  seem 
absurd.  We  must  always  make  some  allowance  for  a  change  of 
style,  which  those  who  are  accustomed  to  read  none  but  works 
written  within  the  last  twenty  years  neither  can  nor  will  make. 

lo  When  a  whole  generation  read,  they  will  read  none  but  contem- 
porary productions.  The  taste  for  literature  becomes  superficial, 
as  it  becomes  universal  and  is  spread  over  a  larger  space.  When 
ten  thousand  boarding-school  girls,  who  have  learned  to  play  on 
the  harpsichord,  are  brought  out  in  the  same  season,  Rossini 

15  will  be  preferred  to  Mozart,  as  the  last  new  composer.  I  re- 
member a  very  genteel  young  couple  in  the  boxes  of  Drury  Lane 
being  very  much  scandalised  some  years  ago  at  the  phrase  in 
A  New  Way  to  Fay  Old  Debts  —  "  an  insolent  piece  of  paper" 
—  applied  to  the  contents  of  a  letter  —  it  wanted  the  modern 

20  lightness  and  indifference.  Let  an  old  book  be  ever  so  good,  it 
treats  (generally  speaking)  of  topics  that  are  stale,  in  a  style  that 
has  grown  "  somewhat  musty  ;  "  of  manners  that  are  exploded, 
probably  by  the  very  ridicule  thus  cast  upon  them ;  of  persons 
that  no  longer  figure  on  the  stage ;  and  of  interests  that  have 

25  long  since  given  place  to  others  in  the  infinite  fluctuations  of 
human  affairs.  Longinus  complains  of  the  want  of  interest  in 
the  Odyssey,  because  it  does  not,  like  the  Iliad,  treat  of  war. 
The  very  complaint  we  make  against  the  latter  is  that  it  treats 
of  nothing  else  ;  or  that,  as  Fuseli  expresses  it,  every  thing  is  seen 

30  "  through  the  blaze  of  war."  Books  of  devotion  are  no  longer 
read  (if  we  read  Irving's  Orations,  it  is  merely  that  we  may  go 
as  a  lounge  to  see  the  man)  :  even  attacks  on  religion  are  out  of 
date  and  insipid.  Voltaire's  jests  and  the  /e7Cf's  Letters  in  answer 
(equal  in  wit,  and  more  than  equal  in  learning),  repose  quietly 


ON  READING  NEW  BOOKS  253 

on  the  shelf  together.  We  want  something  in  England  about 
Rent  and  the  Poor-Laws,  and  something  in  France  about  the 
Charter  —  or  Lord  Byron.  With  the  attempts,  however,  to 
revive  superstition  and  intolerance,  a  spirit  of  opposition  has 
been  excited,  and  Pascal's  Provincial  Letters  have  been  once  5 
more  enlisted  into  the  service.  In  France  you  meet  with  no  one 
who  has  read  the  Neiv  Heloise :  the  Princess  of  Cleves  is  not  even 
mentioned  in  these  degenerate  days.  Ls  it  not  provoking  with 
us  to  see  the  Beggars^  Opera  cut  down  to  two  acts,  because  some 
of  the  allusions  are  too  broad,  and  others  not  understood  1  And  10 
in  America  —  that  Van  Diemen's  Land  of  letters  —  this  sterling 
satire  is  hooted  off  the  stage,  because,  fortunately,  they  have  no 
such  state  of  matters  as  it  describes  .before  their  eyes ;  and  be- 
cause, unfortunately,  they  have  no  conception  of  any  thing  but 
what  they  see.  America  is  singularly  and  awkwardly  situated  in  1 5 
this  respect.  It  is  a  new  country  with  an  old  language ;  and 
while  every  thing  about  them  is  of  a  day's  growth,  they  are  con- 
stantly applying  to  us  to  know  what  to  think  of  it,  and  taking 
their  opinions  from  our  books  and  newspapers  with  a  strange 
mixture  of  servility  and  of  the  spirit  of  contradiction.  They  are  20 
an  independent  state  in  politics  :  in  literature  they  are  still  a 
colony  from  us  —  not  out  of  their  leading  strings,  and  strangely 
puzzled  how  to  determine  between  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly 
Reviews.  We  have  naturalised  some  of  their  writers,  who  had 
formed  themselves  upon  us.  This  is  at  once  a  compliment  to  25 
them  and  to  ourselves.  Amidst  the  scramble  and  lottery  for 
fame  in  the  present  day,  besides  puffing,  which  may  be  regarded 
as  the  hot-bed  of  reputation,  another  mode  has  been  attempted 
by  transplanting  it ;  and  writers  who  are  set  down  as  drivellers 
at  home,  shoot  up  great  authors  on  the  other  side  of  the  water ;  30 
pack  up  their  all  —  a  tide-page  and  sufficient  impudence  ;  and  a 
work,  of  which  XhQ  Jlocci-tiaiici-niliili-pili-Jication,  in  Shenstone's 
phrase,  is  well  known  to  every  competent  judge,  is  placarded 
into  eminence,  and  ''  flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky  " 


254  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

on  the  walls  of  Paris  or  St.  Petersburgh.  I  dare  not  mention 
the  instances,  but  so  it  is.  Some  reputations  last  only  while  the 
possessors  live,  from  which  one  might  suppose  that  they  gave 
themselves  a  character  for  genius :  others  are  cried  up  by  their 
5  gossiping  acquaintances,  as  long  as  they  give  dinners,  and  make 
their  houses  places  of  polite  resort ;  and,  in  general,  in  our  time, 
a  book  may  be  considered  to  have  passed  the  ordeal  that  is 
mentioned  at  all  three  months  after  it  is  printed.  Immortality 
is  not  even  a  dream  —  a  boy's  conceit ;  and  posthumous  fame 

lo  is  no  more  regarded  by  the  author  than  by  his  bookseller.^ 

This  idle,  dissipated  turn  seems  to  be  a  set-off  to,  or  the 
obvious  reaction  of,  the  exclusive  admiration  of  the  ancients, 
which  was  formerly  the  fashion :  as  if  the  sun  of  human  intel- 
lect rose  and  set  at  Rome  and  Athens,  and  the  mind  of  man 

15  had  never  exerted  itself  to  any  purpose  since.  The  ignorant,  as 
well  as  the  adept,  were  charmed  only  with  what  was  obsolete 
and  far-fetched,  wrapped  up  in  technical  terms  and  in  a  learned 
tongue.  Those  who  spoke  and  wrote  a  language  which  hardly 
any  one  at  present  even  understood,  must  of  course  be  wiser 

20  than  we.  Time,  that  brings  so  many  reputations  to  decay,  had 
embalmed  others  and  rendered  them  sacred.  From  an  implicit 
faith  and  overstrained  homage  paid  to  antiquity,  we  of  the 
modern  school  have  taken  too  strong  a  bias  to  what  is  new ; 
and  divide  all  wisdom  and  worth  between  ourselves  and  poster- 

25  ity,  —  not  a  very  formidable  rival  to  our  self-love,  as  we  attrib- 
ute all  its  advantages  to  ourselves,  though  we  pretend  to  owe 
little  or  nothing  to  our  predecessors.  About  the  time  of  the 
French  Revolution,  it  was  agreed  that  the  world  had  hitherto 
been  in  its  dotage  or  its  infancy ;  and  that  Mr.  Godwin,  Con- 

30  dorcet,  and  others  were  to  begin  a  new  race  of  men  —  a  new 

1  When  a  certain  poet  was  asked  if  he  thought  Lord  liyron's  name  would  Uve 
three  years  after  he  was  dead,  he  answered,  "  Not  three  days,  Sir !  "  This  was 
premature:  it  has  lasted  above  a  year.  His  works  have  been  translated  into  French, 
and  there  is  a  Caffc  Byron  on  the  Boulevards.  Think  of  a  Caffc  Wordsworth  on 
the  Boulevards ! 


ON  READING  NEW  BOOKS  255 

epoch  in  society.  Every  thing  up  to  that  period  was  to  be  set 
aside  as  puerile  or  barbarous ;  or,  if  there  were  any  traces  of 
thought  and  manliness  now  and  then  discoverable,  they  were  to 
be  regarded  with  wonder  as  prodigies  —  as  irregular  and  fitful 
starts  in  that  long  sleep  of  reason  and  night  of  philosophy.  Ins 
this  liberal  spirit  Mr.  Godwin  composed  an  Essay  to  prove  that, 
till  the  publication  of  The  Enquiry  concerning  Political  Justice, 
no  one  knew  how  to  write  a  word  of  common  grammar,  or  a 
style  that  was  not  utterly  uncouth,  incongruous,  and  feeble. 
Addison,  Swift,  and  Junius  were  included  in  this  censure.  The  10 
English  language  itself  might  be  supposed  to  owe  its  stability 
and  consistency,  its  roundness  and  polish,  to  the  whirling  motion 
of  the  French  Revolution.  Those  who  had  gone  before  us  were, 
like  our  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  decrepit,  superannuated 
people,  blind  and  dull ;  poor  creatures,  like  flies  in  winter,  with-  1 5 
out  pith  or  marrow  in  them.  The  past  was  barren  of  interest 
—  had  neither  thought  nor  object  worthy  to  arrest  our  atten- 
tion ;  and  the  future  would  be  equally  a  senseless  void,  except 
as  we  projected  ourselves  and  our  theories  into  it.  There  is 
nothing  I  hate  more  than  I  do  this  exclusive,  upstart  spirit.  -o 

"  By  Heavens,  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, 
So  might  I,  standing  on  some  pleasant  lea. 
Catch  glimpses  that  might  make  me  less  forlorn, 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea,  25 

Or  hear  Old  Triton  blow  his  wreatlicd  horn." 

Words  wo  KTu's  Sonnets 

Neither  do  I  see  the  good  of  it  even  in  a  personal  and  interested 
point  of  view.  By  despising  all  that  has  preceded  us,  we  teach 
others  to  despise  ourselves.  Where  there  is  no  established  scale 
nor  rooted  faith  in  excellence,  all  superiority  —  our  own  as  well  30 
as  that  of  others  —  soon  comes  to  the  ground.  By  applying  the 
wrong  end  of  the  magnifying-glass  to  all  objects  indiscriminately, 
the  most  respectable  dwindle  into  insignificance,  and  the  best 


256  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

are  confounded  with  the  worst.  Learning,  no  longer  supported 
by  opinion,  or  genius  by  fame,  is  cast  into  the  mire,  and  "  trampled 
under  the  hoofs  of  a  swinish  multitude."  I  would  rather  endure 
the  most  blind  and  bigoted  respect  for  great  and  illustrious 
5  names,  than  that  pitiful,  grovelling  humour  which  has  no  pride 
in  intellectual  excellence,  and  no  pleasure  but  in  decrying  those 
who  have  given  proofs  of  it,  and  reducing  them  to  its  own  level. 
If,  with  the  diffusion  of  knowledge,  we  do  not  gain  an  enlarge- 
ment and  elevation  of  views,  where  is  the  benefit .''    If,  by  tear- 

10  ing  asunder  names  from  things,  we  do  not  leave  even  the  name 
or  shadow  of  excellence,  it  is  better  to  let  them  remain  as  they 
were  ;  for  it  is  better  to  have  something  to  admire  than  nothing 
—  names,  if  not  things  — -  the  shadow,  if  not  the  substance  — 
the  tinsel,  if  not  the  gold.    All  can  now  read  and  write  equally ; 

15  and,  it  is  therefore  presumed,  equally  well.  Any  thing  short  of 
this  sweeping  conclusion  is  an  invidious  distinction ;  and  those 
who  claim  it  for  themselves  or  others  are  exclusionists  in  letters. 
Every  one  at  least  can  call  names  —  can  invent  a  falsehood,  or 
repeat  a  story  against  those  who  have  galled  their  pragmatical 

20  pretensions  by  really  adding  to  the  stock  of  general  amusement 
or  instruction.  Every  one  in  a  crowd  has  the  power  to  throw 
dirt ;  nine  out  of  ten  have  the  inclination.  It  is  curious  that, 
in  an  age  when  the  most  universally-admitted  claim  to  public 
distinction  is  literary  merit,  the  attaining  this  distinction  is  almost 

25  a  sure  title  to  public  contempt  and  obloquy.^  They  cry  you  up, 
because  you  are  unknown,  and  do  not  excite  their  jealousy  ;  and 
run  you  down,  when  they  have  thus  distinguished  you,  out  of 
envy  and  spleen  at  the  very  idol  they  have  set  up.  A  public 
favourite  is  "  kept  like  an  apple  in  the  jaw  of  an  ape  —  first 

30  mouthed,  to  be  afterwards  swallowed.  When  they  need  what 
you  have  gleaned,  it  is  but  squeezing  you,  and,  spunge,  you 
shall  be  dry  again."    At  first  they  think  only  of  the  pleasure  or 

1  Is  not  this  partly  owing  to  the  disappointment  of  tiic  public  at  finding  any 
defect  in  tlieir  idol  ? 


ON  READING  NEW  BOOKS  257 

advantage  they  receive  :  but,  on  reflection,  they  are  mortified  at 
the  superiority  implied  in  this  involuntary  concession,  and  are 
determined  to  be  even  with  you  the  very  first  opportunity. 
What  is  the  prevailing  spirit  of  modern  literature  ?  To  defame 
men  of  letters.  What  are  the  publications  that  succeed  ?  Those  5 
that  pretend  to  teach  the  public  that  the  persons  they  have  been 
accustomed  unwittingly  to  look  up  to  as  the  lights  of  the  earth 
are  no  better  than  themselves,  or  a  set  of  vagabonds  or  miscreants 
that  should  be  hunted  out  of  society.^  Hence  men  of  letters, 
losing  their  self-respect,  become  government-tools,  and  prosti-  10 
tute  their  talents  to  the  most  infamous  purposes,  or  turn  dandy 
saibbkrs,  and  set  up  for  gentlemen  authors  in  their  own  defence. 
I  like  the  Order  of  the  Jesuits  better  than  this :  they  made 
themselves  respected  by  the  laity,  kept  their  own  secret,  and 
did  not  prey  on  one  another.  Resume  then,  oh !  Learning,  thy  1 5 
robe  pontifical ;  clothe  thyself  in  pride  and  purple ;  join  the 
sacred  to  the  profane  ;  wield  both  worlds  ;  instead  of  twopenny 
trash  and  mechanics'  magazines,  issue  bulls  and  decretals ;  say 
not,  let  there  be  light,  but  darkness  visible;  draw  a  bandage 

1  An  old  friend  of  mine,  when  he  read  the  abuse  and  billingsgate  poured  out 
in  certain  Tory  publications,  used  to  congratulate  himself  upon  it  as  a  favourable 
sign  of  the  times,  and  of  the  progressive  improvement  of  our  manners.  Where 
we  now  called  names,  we  formerly  burnt  each  other  at  a  stake  :  and  all  the 
malice  of  the  heart  flew  to  the  tongue  and  vented  itself  in  scolding,  instead 
of  crusades  and  auto-da-fes  —  the  nobler  revenge  of  our  ancestors  for  a  difference 
of  opinion.  An  author  now  libels  a  prince ;  and,  if  he  takes  the  law  of  him  or 
throws  him  into  gaol,  it  is  looked  upon  as  a  harsh  and  ungentlemanly  proceed- 
ing. He,  therefore,  gets  a  dirty  Secretary  to  employ  a  dirty  bookseller,  to  hire  a 
set  of  dirty  scribblers  to  pelt  him  with  dirt  and  cover  him  with  blackguard  epi- 
thets —  till  he  is  hardly  in  a  condition  to  walk  the  streets.  This  is  hard  measure, 
no  doubt,  and  base  ingratitude  on  the  part  of  the  public,  according  to  the  imag- 
inary dignity  and  natural  precedence  which  authors  take  of  kings  ;  but  the  latter 
are  men,  and  will  have  their  revenge  where  they  can  get  it.  They  have  no  longer 
their  old  summary  appeal  — their  will  may  still  be  good  — to  the  dungeon  and 
the  dagger.  Those  who  "speak  evil  of  dignities"  may,  therefore,  think  themselves 
well  off  in  being  merely  sent  to  CovcnUj :  and,  besides,  if  they  have  pluck  they 
can  make  a  Parthian  retreat,  and  shoot  poisoned  arrows  behind  them.  The  good 
people  of  Florence  lift  up  their  hands  when  they  are  shewn  the  caricatures  in  the 
Queen's  Matrimonial-Ladder,  and  ask  if  they  are  really  a  likeness  of  the  King.? 


258  SELECTIONS  P'ROM  HAZLITT 

over  the  eyes  of  the  ignorant  and  unlettered ;  hang  the  terrors 
of  superstition  and  despotism  over  them ;  —  and  for  thy  pains 
they  will  bless  thee :  children  will  pull  off  their  caps  as  thou 
dost  pass ;  women  will  courtesy  ;  the  old  will  wipe  their  beards ; 
and  thou  wilt  rule  once  more  over  the  base  serving  people, 
clowns,  and  nobles,  with  a  rod  of  iron ! 


ON  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE 

Those  people  who  are  uncomfortable  in  themselves  are  dis- 
agreeable to  others.  I  do  not  here  mean  to  speak  of  persons 
who  offend  intentionally,  or  are  obnoxious  to  dislike  from  some 
palpable  defect  of  mind  or  body,  ugliness,  pride,  ill-humour, 
&c.,  —  but  of  those  who  are  disagreeable  in  spite  of  them-  5 
selves,  and,  as  it  might  appear,  with  almost  every  qualification 
to  recommend  them  to  others.  This  want  of  success  is  owing 
chiefly  to  something  in  what  is  called  their  manner ;  and  this 
again  has  its  foundation  in  a  certain  cross-grained  and  unsocia- 
ble state  of  feeling  on  their  part,  which  influences  us,  perhaps,  10 
without  our  distinctly  adverting  to  it.  The  mind  is  a  finer  in- 
strument than  we  sometimes  suppose  it,  and  is  not  only  swayed 
by  overt  acts  and  tangible  proofs,  but  has  an  instinctive  feeling 
of  the  air  of  truth.  We  find  many  individuals  in  whose  com- 
pany we  pass  our  time,  and  have  no  particular  fault  to  find  15 
with  their  understandings  or  character,  and  yet  we  are  never 
thoroughly  satisfied  with  them :  the  reason  will  turn  out  to  be, 
upon  examination,  that  they  are  never  thoroughly  satisfied  with 
themselves,  but  uneasy  and  out  of  sorts  all  the  time  ;  and  this 
makes  us  uneasy  with  them,  without  our  reflecting  on,  or  being  20 
able  to  discover  the  cause. 

Thus,  for  instance,  we  meet  with  persons  who  do  us  a 
number  of  kindnesses,  who  shew  us  every  mark  of  respect  and 
good-will,  who  are  friendly  and  serviceable,  —  and  yet  we  do 
not  feel  grateful  to  them,  after  all.  We  reproach  ourselves  with  25 
this  as  caprice  or  insensibility,  and  try  to  get  the  better  of 
it;  but  there  is  something  in  their  way  of  doing  things  that 
prevents  us  from  feeling  cordial  or  sincerely  obliged  to  them. 

259 


26o  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

We  think  them  very  worthy  people,  and  would  be  glad  of  an 
opportunity  to  do  them  a  good  turn  if  it  were  in  our  power ; 
but  we  cannot  get  beyond  this  :  the  utmost  we  can  do  is  to  save 
appearances,  and  not  come  to  an  open  rupture  with  them. 
5  The  truth  is,  in  all  such  cases,  we  do  not  sympathise  (as  we 
ought)  with  them,  because  they  do  not  sympathise  (as  they 
ought)  with  us.  They  have  done  what  they  did  from  a  sense  of 
duty  in  a  cold  dry  manner,  or  from  a  meddlesome  busybody 
humour ;  or  to  shew  their  superiority  over  us,  or  to  patronise 

lo  our  infirmity ;  or  they  have  dropped  some  hint  by  the  way,  or 
blundered  upon  some  topic  they  should  not,  and  have  shewn, 
by  one  means  or  other,  that  they  were  occupied  with  any  thing 
but  the  pleasure  they  were  affording  us,  or  a  delicate  attention 
to  our  feelings.    Such  persons  may  be  ?Xy\tAfrie7idly  grievances. 

15  They  are  commonly  people  of  low  spirits  and  disappointed 
views,  who  see  the  discouraging  side  of  human  life,  and,  with 
the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  contrive  to  make  every  thing 
they  have  to  do  with  uncomfortable.  They  are  alive  to  your 
distress,  and  take  pains  to  remove  it ;  but  they  have  no  satis- 

20  faction  in  the  gaiety  and  ease  they  have  communicated,  and  are 
on  the  look-out  for  some  new  occasion  of  signalizing  their  zeal ; 
nor  are  they  backward  to  insinuate  that  you  will  soon  have 
need  of  their  assistance,  to  guard  you  against  running  into  fresh 
difficulties,  or  to  extricate  you  from  them.    From  large  benevo- 

25  lence  of  soul  and  "  discourse  of  reason,  looking  before  and 
after,"  they  are  continually  reminding  you  of  something  that  has 
gone  wrong  in  time  past,  or  that  may  do  so  in  that  which  is  to 
come,  and  are  surprised  that  their  awkward  hints,  sly  inuendos, 
blunt   questions,   and    solemn   features   do    not    excite   all   the 

30  complacency  and  mutual  good  understanding  in  you  which 
it  is  intended  that  they  should.  When  they  make  themselves 
miserable  on  your  account,  it  is  hard  that  you  will  not  lend 
them  your  countenance  and  support.  This  deplorable  humour 
of  theirs  docs  not  hit  anv  one  else,    'i'hey  arc  useful,  but  not 


ON  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE  261 

agreeable  people ;  they  may  assist  you  in  your  affairs,  but  they 
depress  and  tyrannise  over  your  feelings.  When  they  have 
made  you  happy,  they  will  not  let  you  be  so  —  have  no  enjoy- 
ment of  the  good  they  have  done  - —  will  on  no  account  part 
with  their  melancholy  and  desponding  tone  —  and,  by  their  5 
mawkish  insensibility  and  doleful  grimaces,  throw  a  damp 
over  the  triumph  they  are  called  upon  to  celebrate.  They 
would  keep  you  in  hot  water,  that  they  may  help  you  out 
of  it.  They  will  nurse  you  in  a  fit  of  sickness  (congenial  suf- 
ferers !  )  —  arbitrate  a  law-suit  for  you,  and  embroil  you  deeper  10 
—  procure  you  a  loan  of  money ;  —  but  all  the  while  they  are 
only  delighted  with  rubbing  the  sore  place,  and  casting  the 
colour  of  your  mental  or  other  disorders.  "  The  whole  need 
not  a  physician  ;  "  and,  being  once  placed  at  ease  and  comfort, 
they  have  no  farther  use  for  you  as  subjects  for  their  singular  1 5 
beneficence,  and  you  are  not  sorry  to  be  quit  of  their  tiresome 
interference.  The  old  proverb,  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend 
indeed,  is  not  verified  in  them.  The  class  of  persons  here  spoken 
of  are  the  very  reverse  of  sunwier friends,  who  court  you  in  pros- 
perity, flatter  your  vanity,  are  the  humble  servants  of  your  follies,  20 
never  see  or  allude  to  any  thing  wrong,  minister  to  your  gaiety, 
smooth  over  every  difficulty,  and,  with  the  slightest  approach  of 
misfortune  or  of  any  thing  unpleasant,  take  French  leave :  — 

"As  when,  in  prime  of  June,  a  burnished  fly, 
Sprung  from  the  meads,  o'er  which  he  sweeps  along,  25 

Cheered  by  the  breathing  bloom  and  vital  sky, 
Tunes  up  amid  these  airy  halls  his  song, 
Soothing  at  first  the  gay  reposing  throng ; 
And  oft  he  sips  their  bowl,  or  nearly  drowned, 
He  thence  recovering  drives  their  beds  among,  30 

And  scares  their  tender  sleep  with  trump  profound ; 
Then  out  again  he  flies  to  wing  his  mazy  round." 

Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence 

However  we  may  despise  such  triflers,  yet  we  regret  them  more 
than  those  well-meaning  friends  on  whom  a  dull   melancholy 


262  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

vapour  hangs,  that  drags  them  and  every  one  about  them  to 
the  ground. 

Again,  there  are  those  who  might  be  very  agreeable  people, 
if  they  had  but  spirit  to  be  so  ;  but  there  is  a  narrow,  unaspiring, 

5  under-bred  tone  in  all  they  say  or  do.  They  have  great  sense 
and  information  —  abound  in  a  knowledge  of  character  —  have 
a  fund  of  anecdote  —  are  unexceptionable  in  manners  and 
appearance  —  and  yet  we  cannot  make  up  our  minds  to  like 
them :  we  are  not  glad  to  see  them,  nor  sorry  when  they  go 

lo  away.  Our  familiarity  with  them,  however  great,  wants  the 
principle  of  cement,  which  is  a  certain  appearance  of  frank  cor- 
diality and  social  enjoyment.  They  have  no  pleasure  in  the 
subjects  of  their  own  thoughts,  and  therefore  can  communicate 
none  to  others.    There  is  a  dry,  husky,  grating  manner  —  a  petti- 

1 5  ness  of  detail  —  a  tenaciousness  of  particulars,  however  trifling 
or  unpleasant  —  a  disposition  to  cavil  —  an  aversion  to  enlarged 
and  liberal  views  of  things  —  in  short,  a  hard,  painful,  unbending 
matter-of-factness,  from  which  the  spirit  and  effect  are  banished, 
and  the  letter  only  is  attended  to,  which  makes  it  impossible  to 

20  sympathise  with  their  discourse.  To  make  conversation  inter- 
esting or  agreeable,  there  is  required  either  the  habitual  tone  of 
good  company,  which  gives  a  favourable  colouring  to  every 
thing  —  or  the  warmth  and  enthusiasm  of  genius,  which,  though 
it  may  occasionally  offend  or  be  thrown  off  its  guard,  makes 

25  amends  by  its  rapturous  flights,  and  flings  a  glancing  light  upon 
all  things.  The  literal  and  dogged  style  of  conversation  resem- 
bles that  of  a  French  picture,  or  its  mechanical  fidelity  is  like 
evidence  given  in  a  court  of  justice,  or  a  police  report. 

From  the  literal  to  the  plain-spoken,  the  transition  is  easy. 

30  The  most  efficient  weapon  of  offence  is  truth.  Those  who  deal 
in  dry  and  repulsive  matters-of-fact,  tire  out  their  friends  ;  those 
who  blurt  out  hard  and  home  truths,  make  themselves  mortal 
enemies  wherever  they  come.  There  are  your  blunt,  honest 
creatures,  who  omit  no  opportunity  of  letting  you  know  their 


ON  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE  263 

minds,  and  are  sure  to  tell  you  all  the  ill,  and  conceal  all  the 
good  they  hear  of  you.    They  would  not  flatter  you  for  the 
world,  and  to  caution  you  against  the  malice  of  others,  they 
think  the  province  of  a  friend.    This  is  not  candour,  but  im- 
pudence ;  and  yet  they  think  it  odd  you  are  not  charmed  with  5 
their  unreserved  communicativeness  of  disposition.    Gossips  and 
tale-bearers,  on  the  contrary,  who  supply  the  tittle-tattle  of  the 
neighbourhood,  flatter  you  to  your  face,  and  laugh  at  you  behind 
your  back,  are  welcome  and  agreeable  guests  in  all  companies. 
Though  you  know  it  will  be  your  turn  next,  yet  for  the  sake  of  10 
the  immediate  gratification,  you  are  contented  to  pay  your  share 
of  the  public  tax  upon  character,  and  are  better  pleased  with  the 
falsehoods  that  never  reach  your  ears,  than  with  the  truths  that 
others  (less  complaisant  and  more  sincere)  utter  to  your  face  — 
so  short-sighted  and  willing  to  be  imposed  upon  is  our  self-love  !  1 5 
There  is  a  man,  who  has  the  air  of  not  being  convinced  without 
an  argument :  you  avoid  him  as  if  he  were  a  lion  in  your  path. 
There  is  another,  who  asks  you  fifty  questions  as  to  the  com- 
monest things  you  advance :  you  would  sooner  pardon  a  fellow 
who  held  a  pistol  to  your  breast  and  demanded  your  money.  20 
No  one  regards  a  turnpike-keeper,  or  a  custom-house  officer, 
with  a  friendly  eye  :  he  who  stops  you  in  an  excursion  of  fancy, 
or  ransacks  the  articles  of  your  belief  obstinately  and  churlishly, 
to  distinguish  the  spurious  from  the  genuine,  is  still  more  your 
foe.    These  inquisitors  and  cross-examiners  upon  system  make  25 
ten  enemies  for  every  controversy  in  which  they  engage.    The 
world  dread  nothing  so  much  as  being  convinced  of  their  errors. 
In  doing  them  this  piece  of  service,  you  make  war  equally  on 
their  prejudices,  their  interests,  their  pride,  and  indolence.    You 
not  only  set  up  for  a  superiority  of  understanding  over  them,  30 
which  they  hate,  but  you  deprive  them  of  their  ordinary  grounds 
of  action,  their  topics  of  discourse,  of  their  confidence  in  them- 
selves, and  those  to  whom  they  have  been  accustomed  to  look 
up  for  instruction  and  advice.    It  is  making  children  of  them. 


264  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

You  unhinge  all  their  established  opinions  and  trains  of  thought ; 
and  after  leaving  them  in  this  listless,  vacant,  unsettled  state  — • 
dissatisfied  with  their  own  notions  and  shocked  at  yours  —  you 
expect  them  to  court  and  be  delighted  with  your  company,  be- 
5  cause,  forsooth,  you  have  only  expressed  your  sincere  and  consci- 
entious convictions.  Mankind  are  not  deceived  by  professions, 
unless  they  choose.  They  think  that  this  pill  of  true  doctrine, 
however  it  may  be  gilded  over,  is  full  of  gall  and  bitterness  to 
them ;  and,  again,  it  is  a  maxim  of  which  the  vulgar  are  firmly 

10  persuaded,  that  plain-speaking  (as  it  is  called)  is,  nine  parts 
in  ten,  spleen  and  self -opinion ;  and  the  other  part,  perhaps, 
honesty.  Those  who  will  not  abate  an  inch  in  argument,  and 
are  always  seeking  to  recover  the  wind  of  you,  are,  in  the  eye 
of  the  world,  disagreeable,  unconscionable  people,  who  ought  to 

1 5  be  sent  to  Coventry^  or  left  to  wrangle  by  themselves.  No  per- 
sons, however,  are  more  averse  to  contradiction  than  these  same 
dogmatists.  What  shews  our  susceptibility  on  this  point  is,  that 
there  is  no  flattery  so  adroit  or  effectual  as  that  of  implicit  assent. 
Any  one,  however  mean  his  capacity  or  ill-qualified  to  judge, 

20  who  gives  way  to  all  our  sentiments,  and  never  seems  to  think 
but  as  we  do,  is  indeed  an  alter  idem  —  another  self ;  and  we 
admit  him  without  scruple  into  our  entire  confidence,  "yea,  into 
our  heart  of  hearts." 

It  is  the  same  in  books.    Those  which,  under  the  disguise  of 

25  plain-speaking,  vent  paradoxes,  and  set  their  faces  against  the 
common-sense  of  mankind,  are  neither  '"  the  volumes 

''that  enrich  the  shops, 

That  pass  with  approbation  through  the  land ; " 

nor,  I  fear,  can  it  be  added  — - 
30  "  That  bring  their  authors  an  immortal  fame." 

They  excite  a  clamour  and  opposition  at  first,  and  are  in  general 
soon  consigned  to  oblivion.  Even  if  the  opinions  arc  in  the  end 
adopted,  the  authors  gain  little  by  it,  and  their  names  remain  in 


ON  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE  265 

their  original  obloquy ;  for  the  public  will  own  no  obligations  to 
such  ungracious  benefactors.    In  like  manner,  there  are  many 
books  written  in  a  very  delightful  vein,  though  with  little  in 
them,  and  that  are  accordingly  popular.    Their  principle  is  to 
please,  and  not  to  offend ;  and  they  succeed  in  both  objects.  5 
We  are  contented  with  the  deference  shown  to  our  feelings  for  . 
the  time,  and  grant  a  truce  both  to  wit  and  wisdom.    The 
"  courteous   reader "    and    the   good-natured   author   are  well 
matched  in  this  instance,  and  find  their  account  in  mutual  tender- 
ness and  forbearance  to  each  other's  infirmities.    I  am  not  sure  10 
that  Walton's  Angler  is  not  a  book  of  this  last  description  — 

"  That  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  thought, 
Like  the  old  age." 

Hobbes  and  Mandeville  are  in  the  opposite  extreme,  and  have 
met  with  a  correspondent  fate.  The  Tatler  and  Spectator  are  15 
in  the  golden  mean,  carry  instruction  as  far  as  it  can  go  without 
shocking,  and  give  the  most  exquisite  pleasure  without  one 
particle  of  pain.  "  Desire  to  please,  and  y  021  will  infallibly  please,^'' 
is  a  maxim  equally  applicable  to  the  study  or  the  drawing-room. 
Thus  also  we  see  actors  of  very  small  pretensions,  and  who  20 
have  scarce  any  other  merit  than  that  of  being  on  good  terms 
W'ith  themselves,  and  in  high  good  humour  with  their  parts 
(though  they  hardly  understand  a  word  of  them),  who  are  uni- 
versal favourites  with  the  audience.  Others,  who  are  masters  of 
their  art,  and  in  whom  no  slip  or  flaw  can  be  detected,  you  have  25 
no  pleasure  in  seeing,  from  something  dr)',  repulsive,  and  uncon- 
ciliating  in  their  manner ;  and  you  almost  hate  the  very  mention 
of  their  names,  as  an  unavailing  appeal  to  your  candid  decision 
in  their  favour,  and  as  taxing  you  with  injustice  for  refusing  it. 

We  may  observe  persons  who  seem  to  take  a  peculiar  delight  30 
in  the  disagreeable.    They  catch  all  sorts  of  uncouth  tones  and 
gestures,  the  manners  and  dialect  of  clowns  and  hoydens,  and 
aim  at  vulgarity  as  desperately  as  others  ape  gentility.    [This  is 


266  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

what  is  often  understood  by  a  love  of  low  life.']  They  say  the 
most  unwarrantable  things,  without  meaning  or  feeling  what 
they  say.  What  startles  or  shocks  other  people,  is  to  them  a 
sport  —  an  amusing  excitement  —  a  fillip  to  their  constitutions; 

5  and  from  the  bluntness  of  their  perceptions,  and  a  certain  wil- 
fulness of  spirit,  not  being  able  to  enter  into  the  refined  and 
agreeable,  they  make  a  merit  of  despising  every  thing  of  the 
kind.  Masculine  women,  for  example,  are  those  who,  not  being 
distinguished  by  the  charms  and  delicacy  of  the  sex,  affect  a 

10  superiority  over  "it  by  throwing  aside  all  decorum.  We  also  find 
another  class,  who  continually  do  and  say  what  they  ought  not, 
and  what  they  do  not  intend,  and  who  are  governed  almost  en- 
tirely by  an  instinct  of  absurdity.  Owing  to  a  perversity  of 
imagination  or  irritability  of  nerve,  the  idea  that  a  thing  is  im- 

15  proper  acts  as  a  provocation  to  it:  the  fear  of  committing  a 
blunder  is  so  strong,  that  in  their  agitation  they  bolt  out  what- 
ever is  uppermost  in  their  minds,  before  they  are  aware  of  the 
consequence.  The  dread  of  something  wrong  haunts  and  rivets 
their  attention  to  it;   and  an  uneasy,  morbid  apprehensiveness 

20  of  temper  takes  away  their  self-possession,  and  hurries  them 
into  the  very  mistakes  they  are  most  anxious  to  avoid. 

If  we  look  about  us,  and  ask  who  are  the  agreeable  and 
disagreeable  people  in  the  world,  we  shall  see  that  it  does  not 
depend  on  their  virtues  or  vices  —  their  understanding  or  stu- 

25  pidity  —  but  as  much  on  the  degree  of  pleasure  or  pain  they 
seem  to  feel  in  ordinary  social  intercourse.  What  signify  all  the 
good  qualities  any  one  possesses,  if  he  is  none  the  better  for 
them  himself  ?  If  the  cause  is  so  delightful,  the  effect  ought  to 
be  so  too.    We  enjoy  a  friend's  society  only  in  proportion  as  he 

30  is  satisfied  with  ours.  Even  wit,  however  it  may  starde,  is  only 
agreeable  as  it  is  sheathed  in  good-humour.  There  are  a  kind 
of  intellectual  stammerers,  who  are  delivered  of  their  good  things 
with  pain  and  effort;  and  consequently  what  costs  them  such 
evident  uneasiness  does   not  impart  unmixed  delight   to  the 


ON   DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE   .  267 

bystanders.  There  are  those,  on  the  contrar)-,  whose  sallies 
cost  them  nothing  —  who  abound  in  a  flow  of  pleasantry  and 
good-humour ;  and  who  float  down  the  stream  with  them  care- 
lessly and  triumphantly,  — 

"  Wit  at  the  helm,  and  Pleasure  at  the  prow."  5 

Perhaps  it  may  be  said  of  English  wit  in  general,  that  it  too 
much  resembles  pointed  lead :  after  all,  there  is  something 
heavy  and  dull  in  it  1  The  race  of  small  wits  are  not  the  least 
agreeable  people  in  the  world.  They  have  their  little  joke  to 
themselves,  enjoy  it,  and  do  not  set  up  any  preposterous  pre-  10 
tensions  to  thwart  the  current  of  our  self-love.  Toad-eating  is 
accounted  a  thriving  profession ;  and  a  butt^  according  to  the 
Spectator,  is  a  highly  useful  member  of  society  —  as  one  who 
takes  whatever  is  said  of  him  in  good  part,  and  as  necessary  to 
conduct  off  the  spleen  and  superfluous  petulance  of  the  company.  1 5 
Opposed  to  these  are  the  swaggering  bullies  —  the  licensed  wits 
— the  free-thinkers — the  loud  talkers,  who,  in  the  jockey  phrase, 
have  lost  their  mouths^  and  cannot  be  reined  in  by  any  regard  to 
decency  or  common-sense.  The  more  obnoxious  the  subject,  the 
more  are  they  charmed  with  it,  converting  their  want  of  feeling  20 
into  a  proof  of  superiority  to  vulgar  prejudice  and  squeamish 
affectation.  But  there  is  an  unseemly  exposure  of  the  mind,  as 
well  as  of  the  body.  There  are  some  objects  that  shock  the 
sense,  and  cannot  with  propriety  be  mentioned  :  there  are  naked 
truths  that  offend  the  mind,  and  ought  to  be  kept  out  of  sight  as  25 
much  as  possible.  For  human  nature  cannot  bear  to  be  too  hardly 
pressed  upon.  One  of  these  cynical  truisms,  when  brought  for- 
ward to  the  world,  may  be  forgiven  as  a  slip  of  the  pen  :  a  succes- 
sion of  them,  denoting  a  deliberate  purpose  and  malice  prej>ense, 
must  ruin  any  writer.  Lord  Byron  had  got  into  an  irregular  30 
course  of  these  a  little  before  his  death  —  seemed  desirous,  in 
imitation  of  Mr.  Shelley,  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  public  obloquy 
—  and,  at  the  same  time,  wishing  to  screen  himself  from  the 


268  .SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

censure  he  defied,  dedicated  his  Cain  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  —  a 
pretty  godfather  to  such  a  bantling  ! 

Some  persons  are  of  so  teazing  and  fidgetty  a  turn  of  mind, 
that  they  do  not  give  you  a  moment's  rest.  Every  thing  goes 
5  wrong  with  them.  They  complain  of  a  headache  or  the  weather. 
They  take  up  a  book,  and  lay  it  down  again  —  venture  an 
opinion,  and  retract  it  before  they  have  half  done  —  offer  to 
serve  you,  and  prevent  some  one  else  from  doing  it.  If  you 
dine  with  them  at  a  tavern,  in  order  to  be  more  at  your  ease, 

lo  the  fish  is  too  litde  done  —  the  sauce  is  not  the  right  one ;  they 
ask  for  a  sort  of  wine  which  they  think  is  not  to  be  had,  or  if  it 
is,  after  some  trouble,  procured,  do  not  touch  it ;  they  give  the 
waiter  fifty  contradictory  orders,  and  are  restless  and  sit  on 
thorns  the  whole  of  dinner-time.    All  this  is  owing  to  a  want  of 

15  robust  health,  and  of  a  strong  spirit  of  enjoyment ;  it  is  a  fastid- 
ious habit  of  mind,  produced  by  a  valetudinary  habit  of  body : 
they  are  out  of  sorts  with  every  thing,  and  of  course  their  ill- 
humour  and  captiousness  communicates  itself  to  you,  who  are 
as  little  delighted  with  them  as  they  are  with  other  things. 

20  Another  sort  of  people,  equally  objectionable  with  this  helpless 
class,  who  are  disconcerted  by  a  shower  of  rain  or  stopped  by 
an  insect's  wing,  are  those  who,  in  the  opposite  spirit,  will  have 
every  thing  their  own  way,  and  carry  all  before  them  —  who  can- 
not brook  the  slightest  shadow  of  opposition  —  who  are  always 

25  in  the  heat  of  an  argument  —  who  knit  their  brows  and  clench 
their  teeth  in  some  speculative  discussion,  as  if  they  were  engaged 
in  a  personal  quarrel  —  and  who,  though  successful  over  almost 
every  competitor,  seem  still  to  resent  the  very  offer  of  resist- 
ance to  their  supposed  authority,  and  are  as  angry  as  if  they  had 

30  sustained  some  premeditated  injury.  There  is  an  impatience 
of  temper  and  an  intolerance  of  opinion  in  this  that  conciliates 
neither  our  affection  nor  esteem.  To  such  persons  nothing  ap- 
pears of  any  moment  but  the  indulgence  of  a  domineering  intel- 
lectual superiority  to  the  disregard  and  discomfiture  of  their  own 


ON  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE  269 

and  every  body  else's  comfort.  Mounted  on  an  abstract  proposi- 
tion, they  trample  on  every  courtesy  and  decency  of  behaviour ; 
and  though,  perhaps,  they  do  not  intend  the  gross  personalities 
they  are  guilty  of,  yet  they  cannot  be  acquitted  of  a  want  of  due 
consideration  for  others,  and  of  an  intolerable  egotism  in  the  5 
support  of  truth  and  justice.  You  may  hear  one  of  these  Quix- 
otic declaimers  pleading  the  cause  of  humanity  in  a  voice  of 
thunder,  or  expatiating  on  the  beauty  of  a  Guido  with  features 
distorted  with  rage  and  scorn.  This  is  not  a  very  amiable  or 
edifying  spectacle.  10 

There  are  persons  who  cannot  make  friends.    Who  are  they .? 
Those  who  cannot  be  friends.    It  is  not  the  want  of  understand- 
ing or  good-nature,  of  entertaining  or  useful  qualities,  that  you 
complain  of :  on  the  contrary,  they  have  probably  many  points 
of  attraction  ;  but  they  have  one  that  neutralises  all  these  —  they  1 5 
care  nothing  about  you,  and'  are  neither  the  better  nor  worse  for 
what  you  think  of  them.  They  manifest  no  joy  at  your  approach ; 
and  when  you  leave  them,  it  is  with  a  feeling  that  they  can  do 
just  as  well  without  you.    This  is  not  sullenness,  nor  indifference, 
nor  absence  of  mind ;  but  they  are  intent  solely  on  their  own  20 
thoughts,  and  you  are  merely  one  of  the  subjects  they  exercise 
them  upon.    They  live  in  society  as  in  a  solitude  ;  and,  however 
their  brain  works,  their  pulse  beats  neither  faster  nor  slower  for 
the  common  accidents  of  life.    There  is,  therefore,  something 
cold  and  repulsive  in  the  air  that  is  about  them  —  like  that  of  25 
marble.     In  a   word,   they   are   j/iodern  philosophers ;  and  the 
modern  philosopher  is  what  the  pedant  was  of  old  —  a  being 
who  lives  in  a  world  of  his  own,  and  has  no  correspondence  with 
this.    It  is  not  that  such  persons  have  not  done  you  services  — 
you  acknowledge  it ;  it  is  not  that  they  have  said  severe  things  30 
of  you  —  you  submit  to  it  as  a  necessary  evil :  but  it  is  the  cool 
manner  in  which  the  whole  is  done  that  annoys  you  —  the  spec- 
ulating upon  you,  as  if  you  were  nobody  —  the  regarding  you, 
with  a  view  to  an  experiment  ///  corpore  vili  —  the  principle  of 


270  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

dissection  —  the  determination  to  spare  no  blemishes  —  to  cut 
you  down  to  your  real  standard ;  —  in  short,  the  utter  absence 
of  the  partiality  of  friendship,  the  blind  enthusiasm  of  affection, 
or  the  delicacy  of  common  decency,  that  whether  they  "  hew 
5  you  as  a  carcase  fit  for  hounds,  or  carve  you  as  a  dish  fit  for 
the  gods,"  the  operation  on  your  feelings  and  your  sense  of  obli- 
gation is  just  the  same  ;  and,  whether  they  are  demons  or  angels 
in  themselves,  you  wish  them  equally  at  the  devil ! 

Other  persons  of  worth  and  sense  give  way  to  mere  violence 

lo  of  temperament  (with  which  the  understanding  has  nothing  to 
do)  —  are  burnt  up  with  a  perpetual  fury  —  repel  and  throw 
you  to  a  distance  by  their  restless,  whirling  motion  —  so  that 
you  dare  not  go  near  them,  or  feel  as  uneasy  in  their  company 
as  if  you  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  volcano.    They  have  their  tem- 

iS  pora  nioUia  fandi ;  but  then  what  a  stir  may  you  not  expect  the 
next  moment  I  Nothing  is  less  inviting  or  less  comfortable  than 
this  state  of  uncertainty  and  apprehension.  Then  there  are  those 
who  never  approach  you  without  the  most  alarming  advice  or 
information,  telling  you  that  you  are  in  a  dying  way,  or  that  your 

20  affairs  are  on  the  point  of  ruin,  by  way  of  disburthening  their 
consciences ;  and  others,  who  give  you  to  understand  much  the 
same  thing  as  a  good  joke,  out  of  sheer  impertinence,  constitu- 
tional vivacity,  and  want  of  something  to  say.  All  these,  it  must 
be  confessed,  are  disagreeable  people  ;  and  you  repay  their  over- 

25  anxiety  or  total  forgetfulness  of  you,  by  a  determination  to  cut 
them  as  speedily  as  possible.  We  meet  with  instances  of  persons 
who  overpower  you  by  a  sort  of  boisterous  mirth  and  rude 
animal  spirits,  with  whose  ordinary  state  of  excitement  it  is  as 
impossible  to  keep  up  as  with  that  of  any  one  really  intoxicated  ; 

30  and  with  others  who  seem  scarce  alive  —  who  take  no  pleasure 

or  interest  in  any  thing  —  who  are  born  to  exemplify  the  maxim, 

"  Not  to  admire  is  all  the  art  I  know 
To  maiie  men  happy,  or  to  keep  them  so,"  — 

and  whose  mawkish  insensibility  or  sullen  scorn   are  equally 


ON  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE  27 1 

annoying.  In  general,  all  people  brought  up  in  remote  country 
places,  where  life  is  crude  and  harsh  —  all  sectaries  —  all  par- 
tisans of  a  losing  cause,  are  discontented  and  disagreeable. 
Commend  me  above  all  to  the  Westminster  School  of  Reform, 
whose  blood  runs  as  cold  in  their  veins  as  the  torpedo's,  and  5 
whose  touch  jars  like  it.  Catholics  are,  upon  the  whole,  more 
amiable  than  Protestants  —  foreigners  than  English  people. 
Among  ourselves,  the  Scotch,  as  a  nation,  are  particularly  dis- 
agreeable. They  hate  every  appearance  of  comfort  themselves, 
and  refuse  it  to  others.  Their  climate,  their  religion,  and  their  10 
habits  are  equally  averse  to  pleasure.  Their  manners  are  either 
distinguished  by  a  fawning  sycophancy  (to  gain  their  own  ends, 
and  conceal  their  natural  defects),  that  makes  one  sick  ;  or  by 
a  morose  unbending  callousness,  that  makes  one  shudder.  I  had 
forgot  to  mention  two  other  descriptions  of  persons  who  fall  under  1 5 
the  scope  of  this  essay  :  —  those  who  take  up  a  subject  and  run 
on  with  it  interminably,  without  knowing  whether  their  hearers 
care  one  word  about  it,  or  in  the  least  minding  what  reception 
their  oratory  meets  with  —  these  are  pretty  generally  voted  bores 
(mostly  German  ones)  ;  —  and  others,  who  may  be  designated  as  20 
practical  paradox-mongers  —  who  discard  the  "  milk  of  human 
kindness,"  and  an  attention  to  common  observances,  from  all 
their  actions,  as  effeminate  and  puling  — -  who  wear  a  white  hat 
as  a  mark  of  superior  understanding,  and  carry  home  a  handker- 
chief-full of  mushrooms  in  the  top  of  it  as  an  original  discovery  25 
—  who  give  you  craw-fish  for  supper  instead  of  lobsters ;  seek 
their  company  in  a  garret,  and  over  a  gin-botde,  to  avoid  the  impu- 
tation of  affecting  genteel  society  ;  and  discard  them  after  a  term 
of  years,  and  warn  others  against  them,  as  being  honest  fell 07vs, 
which  is  thought  a  vulgar  prejudice.  This  is  carrying  the  harsh  30 
and  repulsive  even  beyond  the  disagreeable — to  the  hateful.  Such 
persons  are  generally  people  of  common-place  understandings, 
obtuse  feelings,  and  inordinate  vanity.  They  are  formidable  if  they 
get  you  in  their  power  —  otherwise,  they  are  only  to  be  laughed  at. 


272  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

There  are  a  vast  number  who  are  disagreeable  from  meanness 
of  spirit,  downright  insolence,  from  slovenliness  of  dress  or  dis- 
gusting tricks,  from  folly  or  ignorance :  but  these  causes  are 
positive  moral  or  physical  defects,  and  I  only  meant  to  speak  of 
5  that  repulsiveness  of  manners  which  arises  from  want  of  tact 
and  sympathy  with  others.  So  far  of  friendship :  a  word,  if  I 
durst,  of  love.  Gallantry  to  women  (the  sure  road  to  their 
favour)  is  nothing  but  the  appearance  of  extreme  devotion 
to  all  their  wants  and  wishes  —  a  delight  in  their  satisfaction, 

lo  and  a  confidence  in  yourself,  as  being  able  to  contribute  towards 
it.  The  slightest  indifference  with  regard  to  them,  or  distrust  of 
yourself,  are  equally  fatal.  The  amiable  is  the  voluptuous  in 
looks,  manner,  or  words.  No  face  that  exhibits  this  kind  of 
expression  —  whether  lively  or  serious,  obvious  or  suppressed, 

1 5  will  be  thought  ugly  —  no  address,  awkward  —  no  lover  who 
approaches  every  woman  he  meets  as  his  mistress,  will  be 
unsuccessful.  Diffidence  and  awkwardness  are  the  two  anti- 
dotes to  love. 

To  please  universally,  we  must  be  pleased  with  ourselves  and 

2o  others.  There  should  be  a  tinge  of  the  coxcomb,  an  oil  of  self- 
complacency,  an  anticipation  of  success  —  there  should  be  no 
gloom,  no  moroseness,  no  shyness  —  in  short,  there  should  be 
very  litde  of  an  Englishman,  and  a  good  deal  of  a  Frenchman. 
But  though,  I  believe,  this  is  the  receipt,  we  are  none  the  nearer 

25  making  use  of  it.  It  is  impossible  for  those  who  are  naturally 
disagreeable  ever  to  become  otherwise.  This  is  some  consola- 
tion, as  it  may  save  a  world  of  useless  pains  and  anxiety. 
"  Desire  to  please,  and  you  will  infallibly  please"  is  a  true 
maxim ;   but  it  does  not  follow  that  it  is  in  the  power  of  all 

30  to  practise  it.  A  vain  man,  who  thinks  he  is  endeavouring  to 
please,  is  only  endeavouring  to  shine,  and  is  still  farther  from 
the  mark.  An  irritable  man,  who  puts  a  check  upon  himself, 
only  grows  dull,  and  loses  spirit  to  be  anything.  Good  temper 
and  a  happy  spirit  (which  arc  the  indispensable  requisites)  can 


ON   DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE  273 

no  more  be  commanded  than  good  health  or  good  looks ;  and 
though  the  plain  and  sickly  need  not  distort  their  features,  and 
may  abstain  from  excess,  this  is  all  they  can  do.  The  utmost  a 
disagreeable  person  can  do  is  to  hope  to  be  less  disagreeable  than 
with  care  and  study  he  might  become,  and  to  pass  unnoticed  5 
in  society.  With  this  negative  character  he  should  be  contented, 
and  may  build  his  fame  and  happiness  on  other  things. 

I  will  conclude  with  a  character  of  men  who  neither  please 
nor  aspire  to  please  anybody,  and  who  can  come  in  nowhere  so 
properly  as  at  the  fag-end  of  an  essay :  —  I  mean  that  class  of  10 
discontented  but  amusing  persons,  who  are  infatuated  with  their 
own  ill  success,  and  reduced  to  despair  by  a  lucky  turn  in  their 
favour.  While  all  goes  well,  they  are  like  fish  out  of  wafer. 
They  have  no  reliance  on  or  sympathy  with  their  good  fortune, 
and  look  upon  it  as  a  momentary  delusion.  Let  a  doubt  be  15 
thrown  on  the  question,  and  they  begin  to  be  full  of  lively 
apprehensions  again :  let  all  their  hopes  vanish,  and  they  feel 
themselves  on  firm  ground  once  more.  From  w^ant  of  spirit  or 
of  habit,  their  imaginations  cannot  rise  above  the  low  ground  of 
humility — cannot  reflect  the  gay,  flaunting  tints  of  the  fancy—  20 
flag  and  droop  into  despondency  —  and  can  neither  indulge  the 
expectation,  nor  employ  the  means  of  success.  Even  when  it  is 
within  their  reach,  they  dare  not  lay  hands  upon  it ;  and  shrink 
from  unlooked-for  bursts  of  prosperity,  as  something  of  which 
they  are  both  ashamed  and  unworthy.  The  class  of  croakers  25 
here  spoken  of  are  less  delighted  at  other  people's  misfortunes 
than  their  own.  Their  neighbours  may  have  some  pretensions 
—  they  have  none.  Querulous  complaints  and  anticipations  of 
pleasure  are  the  food  on  which  they  live ;  and  they  at  last  ac- 
quire a  passion  for  that  which  is  the  favourite  theme  of  their  30 
thoughts,  and  can  no  more  do  without  it  than  without  the  pinch 
of  snuff  with  which  they  season  their  conversation,  and  enliven 
the  pauses  of  their  daily  prognostics. 


ON  A  SUN-DIAL 

"  To  carve  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point."  —  Shakespeare. 

Horas  non  numero  nisi  serenas  —  is  the  motto  of  a  sun-dial 
near  Venice.  There  is  a  softness  and  a  harmony  in  the  words 
and  in  the  thought  unparalleled.  Of  all  conceits  it  is  surely  the 
5  most  classical.  "  I  count  only  the  hours  that  are  serene."  What 
a  bland  and  care-dispelling  feeling !  How  the  shadows  seem  to 
fade  on  the  dial-plate  as  the  sky  lours,  and  time  presents  only  a 
blank  unless  as  its  progress  is  marked  by  what  is  joyous,  and  all 
that  is  not  happy  sinks  into  oblivion  !  What  a  fine  lesson  is  con- 
ic veyed  to  the  mind — to  take  no  note  of  time  but  by  its  benefits, 
to  watch  only  for  the  smiles  and  neglect  the  frowns  of  fate,  to 
compose  our  lives  of  bright  and  gentle  m.oments,  turning  always 
to  the  sunny  side  of  things,  and  letting  the  rest  slip  from  our 
imaginations,  unheeded  or  forgotten !  How  different  from  the 
15  common  art  of  self-tormenting!  For  myself,  as  I  rode  along 
the  Brenta,  while  the  sun  shone  hot  upon  its  sluggish,  slimy 
waves,  my  sensations  were  far  from  comfortable ;  but  the  read- 
ing this  inscription  on  the  side  of  a  glaring  wall  in  an  instant 
restored  me  to  myself ;  and  still,  whenever  I  think  of  or  repeat 
20  it,  it  has  the  power  of  wafting  me  into  the  region  of  pure  and 
blissful  abstraction.  I  cannot  help  fancying  it  to  be  a  legend  of 
Popish  superstition.  Some  monk  of  the  dark  ages  must  have 
invented  and  bequeathed  it  to  us,  who,  loitering  in  trim  gardens 
and  watching  the  silent  march  of  time,  as  his  fruits  ripened  in 
25  the  sun  or  his  flowers  scented  the  balmy  air,  felt  a  mild  languor 
pervade  his  senses,  and  having  little  to  do  or  to  care  for,  deter- 
mined (in  imitation  of  his  sun-dial)  to  efface  that  little  from  his 

274 


ON  A  SUN-DIAL  275 

thoughts  or  draw  a  veil  over  it,  making  of  his  life  one  long 
dream  of  quiet !  Horas  non  numero  nisi  sere?ias  —  he  might 
repeat,  when  the  heavens  were  overcast  and  the  gathering  storm 
scattered  the  falling  leaves,  and  turn  to  his  books  and  wrap  him- 
self in  his  golden  studies !  Out  of  some  such  mood  of  mind,  5 
indolent,  elegant,  thoughtful,  this  exquisite  device  (speaking 
volumes)  must  have  originated. 

Of  the  several  modes  of  counting  time,  that  by  the  sun-dial 
is  perhaps  the  most  apposite  and  striking,  if  not  the  most  con- 
venient or  comprehensive.   It  does  not  obtrude  its  observations,  10 
though  it  "  morals  on  the  time,"  and,  by  its  stationary  character, 
forms  a  contrast  to  the  most  fleeting  of  all  essences.    It  stands 
sub  dio  —  under  the  marble  air,  and  there  is  some  connexion 
between  the  image  of  infinity  and  eternity.    I  should  also  like  to 
have  a  sunflower  growing  near  it  with  bees  fluttering  round. ^    It  15 
should  be  of  iron  to  denote  duration,  and  have  a  dull,  leaden  look. 
I  hate  a  sun-dial  made  of  wood,  which  is  rather  calculated  to 
show  the  variations  of  the  seasons,  than  the  progress  of  time, 
slow,  silent,  imperceptible,  chequered  with  light  and  shade.    If 
our  hours  were  all  serene,  we  might  probably  take  almost  as  20 
little  note  of  them,  as  the  dial  does  of  those  that  are  clouded. 
It  is  the  shadow  thrown  across,  that  gives  us  warning  of  their 
flight.    Otherwise,  our  impressions  would  take  the  same  undis- 
tinguishable  hue ;  we  should  scarce  be  conscious  of  our  exist- 
ence.   Those  who  have  had  none  of  the  cares  of  this  life  to  25 
harass  and  disturb  them,  have  been  obliged  to  have  recourse  to 
the  hopes  and  fears  of  the  next  to  enliven  the  prospect  before 
them.    Most  of  the  methods  for  measuring  the  lapse  of  time 
have,  I  believe,  been  the  contrivance  of  monks  and  religious 
recluses,  who,  finding  time  hang  heavy  on  their  hands,  were  30 
at  some  pains  to  see  how  they  got  rid  of  it.    The  hour-glass 
is,  I  suspect,  an  older  invention ;   and  it  is  certainly  the  most 

1  Is  this  a  verbal  fallacy  ?  Or  in  the  close,  retired,  sheltered  scene  which  I  have 
imagined  to  myself,  is  not  the  sun-flower  a  natural  accompaniment  of  the  sun-dial  1 


276  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

defective  of  all.  Its  creeping  sands  are  not  indeed  an  unapt 
emblem  of  the  minute,  countless  portions  of  our  existence ; 
and  the  manner  in  which  they  gradually  slide  through  the  hol- 
low glass  and  diminish  in  number  till  not  a  single  one  is  left, 
5  also  illustrates  the  way  in  which  our  years  slip  from  us  by 
stealth :  but  as  a  mechanical  invention,  it  is  rather  a  hindrance 
than  a  help,  for  it  requires  to  have  the  time,  of  which  it  pre- 
tends to  count  the  precious  moments,  taken  up  in  attention  to 
itself,  and  in  seeing  that  when  one  end  of  the  glass  is  empty, 

10  we  turn  it  round,  in  order  that  it  may  go  on  again,  or  else  all 
our  labour  is  lost,  and  we  must  wait  for  some  other  mode 
of  ascertaining  the  time  before  we  can  recover  our  reckoning 
and  proceed  as  before.  The  philosopher  in  his  cell,  the  cottager 
at  her  spinning-wheel  must,  however,  find  an  invaluable  acqui- 

15  sition  in  this  "companion  of  the  lonely  hour,"  as  it  has  been 
called,^  which  not  only  serves  to  tell  how  the  time  goes,  but  to 
fill  up  its  vacancies.  What  a  treasure  must  not  the  little  box 
seem  to  hold,  as  if  it  were  a  sacred  deposit  of  the  very  grains 
and  fleeting  sands  of  life !    What  a  business,  in  lieu  of  other 

20  more  important  avocations,  to  see  it  out  to  the  last  sand,  and 
then  to  renew  the  process  again  on  the  instant,  that  there  may 
not  be  the  least  flaw  or  error  in  the  account !  What  a  strong 
sense  must  be  brought  home  to  the  mind  of  the  value  and  irre- 
coverable nature  of  the  time  that  is  fled ;  what  a  thrilling,  inces- 

25  sant  consciousness  of  the  slippery  tenure  by  which  we  hold 
what  remains  of  it !  Our  very  existence  must  seem  crumbling 
to  atoms,  and  running  down  (without  a  miraculous  reprieve) 
to  the  last  fragment.  "  Dust  to  dust  and  ashes  to  ashes  "  is  a 
text  that  might  be  fairly  inscribed  on  an  hour-glass:  it  is  ordi- 

30  narily  associated  with  the  scythe  of  Time  and  a  Death's-head, 
as  a  Memento  mori ;  and  has,  no  doubt,  furnished  many  a  tacit 

1  "  Once  more,  companion  of  the  lonely  hour, 
I'll  turn  thee  up  again." 

Bloomjicld'' s  Poems  —  The  WiJoiv  to  her  I/our-^lass 


ON  A  SUN-DIAL  277 

hint  to  the  apprehensive  and  visionary  enthusiast  in  favour 
of  a  resurrection  to  another  life ! 

The  French  give  a  different  turn  to  things,  less  sombre  and 
less  edifying.  A  common  and  also  a  very  pleasing  ornament  to 
a  clock,  in  Paris,  is  a  figure  of  Time  seated  in  a  boat  which  5 
Cupid  is  rowing  along,  with  the  motto,  L Amour  fait  passer  le 
Terns  — ■  which  the  wits  again  have  travestied  into  Le  Tems  fait 
passer  L Amour.  All  this  is  ingenious  and  well ;  but  it  wants 
sentiment.  I  like  a  people  who  have  something  that  they  love 
and  something  that  they  hate,  and  with  whom  every  thing  is  not  10 
alike  a  matter  of  indifference  ox  pour  passer  le  tems.  The  French 
attach  no  importance  to  any  thing,  except  for  the  moment ;  they 
are  only  thinking  how  they  shall  get  rid  of  one  sensation  for 
another ;  all  their  ideas  are  in  transitu.  Every  thing  is  detached, 
nothing  is  accumulated.  It  would  be  a  million  of  years  before  15 
a  Frenchman  would  think  of  the  Horas  non  numero  nisi  serenas. 
Its  impassioned  repose  and  ideal  voluptuousness  are  as  far  from 
their  breasts  as  the  poetry  of  that  line  in  Shakspeare  —  "  How 
sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  that  bank  !  "  They  never  arrive 
at  the  classical  —  or  the  romantic.  They  blow  the  bubbles  of  20 
vanity,  fashion,  and  pleasure ;  but  they  do  not  expand  their  per- 
ceptions into  refinement,  or  strengthen  them  into  solidity.  Where 
there  is  nothing  fine  in  the  ground-work  of  the  imagination, 
nothing  fine  in  the  superstructure  can  be  produced.  They  are 
light,  airy,  fanciful  (to  give  them  their  due)  —  but  when  they  25 
attempt  to  be  serious  (beyond  mere  good  sense)  they  are  either 
dull  or  extravagant.  When  the  volatile  salt  has  flown  off,  nothing 
but  a  caput  mortuum  remains.  They  have  infinite  crotchets  and 
caprices  with  their  clocks  and  watches,  which  seem  made  for 
any  thing  but  to  tell  the  hour  —  gold-repeaters,  watches  with  30 
metal  covers,  clocks  with  hands  to  count  the  seconds.  There  is  no 
escaping  from  quackery  and  impertinence,  even  in  our  attempts 
to  calculate  the  waste  of  time.  The  years  gallop  fast  enough  for 
me,  without  remarking  every  moment  as  it  flies ;   and  farther, 


2/8  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

I  must  say  I  dislike  a  watch  (whether  of  French  or  English 
manufacture)  that  comes  to  me  like  a  footpad  with  its  face 
muffled,  and  does  not  present  its  clear,  open  aspect  like  a 
friend,  and  point  with  its  finger  to  the  time  of  day.  All  this 
5  opening  and  shutting  of  dull,  heavy  cases  (under  pretence  that 
the  glass-lid  is  liable  to  be  broken,  or  lets  in  the  dust  or  air  and 
obstructs  the  movement  of  the  watch),  is  not  to  husband  time, 
but  to  give  trouble.  It  is  mere  pomposity  and  self-importance, 
like  consulting  a  mysterious  oracle  that  one  carries  about  with 

lo  one  in  one's  pocket,  instead  of  asking  a  common  question  of  an 
acquaintance  or  companion.  There  are  two  clocks  which  strike 
the  hour  in  the  room  where  I  am.  This  I  do  not  like.  In  the 
first  place,  I  do  not  want  to  be  reminded  twice  how  the  time 
goes  (it  is  like  the  second  tap  of  a  saucy  servant  at  your  door 

1 5  when  perhaps  you  have  no  wish  to  get  up) :  in  the  next  place, 
it  is  starting  a  difference  of  opinion  on  the  subject,  and  I  am 
averse  to  every  appearance  of  wrangling  and  disputation.  Time 
moves  on  the  same,  whatever  disparity  there  may  be  in  our 
mode  of  keeping  count  of  it,  like  true  fame  in  spite  of  the 

2o  cavils  and  contradictions  of  the  critics.  I  am  no  friend  to  re- 
peating watches.  The  only  pleasant  association  I  have  with 
them  is  the  account  given  by  Rousseau  of  some  French  lady, 
who  sat  up  reading  the  New  Heloise  when  it  first  came  out,  and 
ordering  her  maid  to  sound  the  repeater,  found  it  was  too  late 

25  to  go  to  bed,  and  continued  reading  on  till  morning.  Yet  how 
different  is  the  interest  excited  by  this  stoiy  from  the  account 
which  Rousseau  somewhere  else  gives  of  his  sitting  up  with  his 
father  reading  romances,  when  a  boy,  till  they  were  startled  by 
the  swallows  twittering  in  their  nests  at  day-break,  and  the  father 

30  cried  out,  half  angry  and  ashamed  —  ''Allo?is,  mon  fils  ;  je  suis 
plus  enfant  que  toil "  In  general,  I  have  heard  repeating  watches 
sounded  in  stage-coaches  at  night,  when  some  fellow-traveller 
suddenly  awaking  and  wondering  what  was  the  hour,  another 
has  very  deliberately  taken  out  his  watch,  and  pressing  the 


ON  A  SUN-DIAL  279 

spring,  it  has  counted  out  the  time;  each  petty  stroke  acting 
like  a  sharp  puncture  on  the  ear,  and  informing  me  of  the 
dreary  hours  I  had  already  passed,  and  of  the  more  dreary 
ones  I  had  to  wait  till  morning. 

The   great    advantage,   it  is  true,   which  clocks  have  over  5 
watches  and  other  dumb  reckoners  of  time  is,  that  for  the 
most  part  they  strike  the  hour  —  that  they  are  as  it  were  the 
mouth-pieces  of  time ;   that  they  not  only  point  it  to  the  eye, 
but  impress  it  on  the  ear ;  that  they  "  lend  it  both  an  under- 
standing and  a  tongue."    Time  thus  speaks  to  us  in  an  audible  10 
and  warning  voice.    Objects  of  sight  are  easily  distinguished  by 
the  sense,  and  suggest  useful  reflections  to  the  mind ;  sounds, 
from  their  intermittent  nature,  and  perhaps  other  causes,  appeal 
more  to  the  imagination,  and  strike  upon  the  heart.    But  to  do 
this,  they  must  be  unexpected  and  involuntary  —  there  must  be  1 5 
no  trick  in  the  case  —  they  should  not  be  squeezed  out  with  a 
finger  and  a  thumb  ;  there  should  be  nothing  optional,  personal 
in  their  occurrence ;  they  should  be  like  stem,  inflexible  monitors, 
that  nothing  can  prevent  from  discharging  their  duty.    Surely, 
if  there  is  any  thing  with  which  we  should  not  mix  up  our  vanity  20 
and  self-confidence,  it  is  with  Time,  the  most  independent  of  all 
things.  All  the  sublimity,  all  the  superstition  that  hang  upon  this 
palpable  mode  of  announcing  its  flight,  are  chiefly  attached  to 
this  circumstance.     Time  would  lose  its  abstracted  character, 
if  we  kept  it  like  a  curiosity  or  a  jack-in-a-box :   its  prophetic  25 
warnings  would  have  no  effect,  if  it  obviously  spoke  only  at  our 
prompting,  like  a  paltry  ventriloquism.    The  clock  that  tells  the 
coming,  dreaded  hour  —  the  castle  bell,  that  "  with  its  brazen 
throat  and  iron  tongue,  sounds  one  unto  the  drowsy  ear  of 
night "  —  the  curfew,  "  swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar  "  o'er  30 
wizard  stream  or  fountain,  are  like  a  voice  from  other  worlds, 
big  with  unknown  events.    The  last  sound,  which  is  still  kept 
up  as  an  old  custom  in   many  parts  of   England,   is  a  great 
favourite  with  me.    I  used  to  hear  it  when  a  boy.    It  tells  a 


28o  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

tale  of  other  times.  The  days  that  are  past,  the  generations 
that  are  gone,  the  tangled  forest  glades  and  hamlets  brown  of 
my  native  country,  the  woodsman's  art,  the  Norman  warrior 
armed  for  the  battle  or  in  his  festive  hall,  the  conqueror's  iron 
5  rule  and  peasant's  lamp  extinguished,  all  start  up  at  the  clam- 
orous peal,  and  fill  my  mind  with  fear  and  wonder.  I  confess, 
nothing  at  present  interests  me  but  what  has  been  —  the  recol- 
lection of  the  impressions  of  my  early  life,  or  events  long  past, 
of  which  only  the  dim  traces  remain  in  a  smouldering  ruin  or 

10  half-obsolete  custom.  That  thitigs  should  be  that  are  now  no  tnore, 
creates  in  my  mind  the  most  unfeigned  astonishment.  I  cannot 
solve  the  mystery  of  the  past,  nor  exhaust  my  pleasure  in  it. 
The  years,  the  generations  to  come,  are  nothing  to  me.  We 
care  no  more  about  the  world  in  the  year  2300  than  we  do 

15  about  one  of  the  planets.  Even  George  IV.  is  better  than  the 
Earl  of  Windsor.  We  might  as  well  make  a  voyage  to  the  moon 
as  think  of  stealing  a  march  upon  Time  with  impunity.  JDe  non 
apparentibus  et  non  existentibus  eadem  est  ratio.  Those  who  are 
to  come  after  us  and  push  us  from  the  stage  seem  like  upstarts 

20  and  pretenders,  that  may  be  said  to  exist  in  vacuo,  we  know  not 
upon  what,  except  as  they  are  blown  up  with  vain  and  self  con- 
ceit by  their  patrons  among  the  modems.  But  the  ancients  are 
true  and  bond-fide  people,  to  whom  we  are  bound  by  aggregate 
knowledge  and  filial  ties,  and  in  whom  seen  by  the  mellow  light 

25  of  history  we  feel  our  own  existence  doubled  and  our  pride  con- 
soled, as  we  ruminate  on  the  vestiges  of  the  past.  The  public 
in  general,  however,  do  not  carry  this  speculative  indifference 
about  the  future  to  what  is  to  happen  to  themselves,  or  to  the 
part  they  are  to  act  in  the  busy  scene.   For  my  own  part,  I  do ; 

30  and  the  only  wish  I  can  form,  or  that  ever  prompts  the  passing 
sigh,  would  be  to  live  some  of  my  years  over  again  —  they 
would  be  those  in  which  I  enjoyed  and  suffered  most ! 

The  ticking  of  a  clock  in  the  night  has  nothing  very  interest- 
ing nor  very  alarming  in  it,  though  superstition  has  magnified  it 


ON  A  SUN-DIAL  281 

into  an  omen.  In  a  state  of  vigilance  or  debility,  it  preys  upon 
the  spirits  like  the  persecution  of  a  teazing  pertinacious  insect ; 
and  haunting  the  imagination  after  it  has  ceased  in  reality,  is 
converted  into  the  death-watch.  Time  is  rendered  vast  by  con- 
templating its  minute  portions  thus  repeatedly  and  painfully  urged  5 
upon  its  attention,  as  the  ocean  in  its  immensity  is  composed  of 
water-drops.  A  clock  striking  with  a  clear  and  silver  sound  is  a 
great  relief  in  such  circumstances,  breaks  the  spell,  and  resembles 
a  sylph-like  and  friendly  spirit  in  the  room.  Foreigners,  with  all 
their  tricks  and  contrivances  upon  clocks  and  time-pieces,  are  10 
strangers  to  the  sound  of  village-bells,  though  perhaps  a  people 
that  can  dance  may  dispense  with  them.  They  impart  a  pensive, 
wayward  pleasure  to  the  mind,  and  are  a  kind  of  chronology  of 
happy  events,  often  serious  in  the  retrospect — births,  marriages, 
and  so  forth.  Coleridge  calls  them  "  the  poor  man's  only  music."  15 
A  village-spire  in  England  peeping  from  its  cluster  of  trees  is 
always  associated  in  imagination  with  this  cheerful  accompani- 
ment, and  may  be  expected  to  pour  its  joyous  tidings  on  the 
gale.  In  Catholic  countries,  you  are  stunned  with  the  everlasting 
tolling  of  bells  to  prayers  or  for  the  dead.  In  the  Apennines,  20 
and  other  wild  and  mountainous  districts  of  Italy,  the  little  chapel- 
bell  with  its  simple  tinkling  sound  has  a  romantic  and  charming 
effect.  The  Monks  in  former  times  appear  to  have  taken  a  pride 
in  the  construction  of  bells  as  well  as  churches ;  and  some  of 
those  of  the  great  cathedrals  abroad  (as  at  Cologne  and  Rouen)  25 
may  be  fairly  said  to  be  hoarse  with  counting  the  flight  of  ages. 
The  chimes  in  Holland  are  a  nuisance.  They  dance  in  the  hours 
and  the  quarters.  They  leave  no  respite  to  the  imagination.  Be- 
fore one  set  has  done  ringing  in  your  ears,  another  begins.  You 
do  not  know  whether  the  hours  move  or  stand  still,  go  back-  30 
wards  or  forwards,  so  fantastical  and  perplexing  are  their  accom- 
paniments. Time  is  a  more  staid  personage,  and  not  so  full  of 
gambols.  It  puts  you  in  mind  of  a  tune  with  variations,  or  of 
an  embroidered  dress.   Surely,  nothing  is  more  simple  than  time. 


282  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

His  march  is  straightforward ;  but  we  should  have  leisure  allowed 
us  to  look  back  upon  the  distance  we  have  come,  and  not  be 
counting  his  steps  every  moment.  Time  in  Holland  is  a  foolish 
old  fellow  with  all  the  antics  of  a  youth,  who  "  goes  to  church 

5  in  a  coranto,  and  lights  his  pipe  in  a  cinque-pace."  The  chimes 
with  us,  on  the  contrary,  as  they  come  in  every  three  or  four 
hours,  are  like  stages  in  the  journey  of  the  day.  They  give 
a  fillip  to  the  lazy,  creeping  hours,  and  relieve  the  lassitude  of 
country-places.    At  noon,  their  desultory,  trivial  song  is  diffused 

10  through  the  hamlet  with  the  odour  of  rashers  of  bacon ;  at  the 

close  of  day  they  send  the  toil-worn  sleepers  to  their  beds. 

Their  discontinuance  would  be  a  great  loss  to  the  thinking 

or  unthinking  public.    Mr.  Wordsworth  has  painted  their  effect 

on  the  mind  when  he  makes  his  friend  Matthew,  in  a  fit  of 

1 5  inspired  dotage, 

"  Sing  those  witty  rhymes 
About  the  crazy  old  church-clock 
And  the  bewilder'd  chimes." 

The  tolling  of  the  bell  for  deaths  and  executions  is  a  fearful 
2o  summons,  though,  as  it  announces,  not  the  advance  of  time  but 
the  approach  of  fate,  it  happily  makes  no  part  of  our  subject. 
Otherwise,  the  "  sound  of  the  bell  "  for  Macheath's  execution  in 
the  "  Beggar's  Opera,"  or  for  that  of  the  Conspirators  in  "Venice 
Preserved,"  with  the  roll  of  the  drum  at  a  soldier's  funeral,  and 
25  a  digression  to  that  of  my  Uncle  Toby,  as  it  is  so  finely  de- 
scribed by  Sterne,  would  furnish  ample  topics  to  descant  upon. 
If  I  were  a  moralist,  I  might  disapprove  the  ringing  in  the  new 
and  ringing  out  the  old  year. 

"  Why  dance  ye,  mortals,  o'er  the  grave  of  Time  ?  " 

30  St.  Paul's  bell  tolls  only  for  the  death  of  our  English  kings,  or 
a  distinguished  personage  or  two,  with  long  intervals  between.^ 

1  Rousseau  has  admirably  described  the  effect  of  bells  on  the  imagination  in 
a  passage  in  the  Confessions,  beginning  "/.f  son  dcs  cloches  tti'a  ioujours  singuliire- 
tiiciit  affccte"  &c. 


ON  A  SUN-DIAL  283 

Those  who  have  no  artificial  means  of  ascertaining  the  prog- 
ress of  time,  are  in  general  the  most  acute  in  discerning  its 
immediate  signs,  and  are  most  retentive  of  individual  dates. 
The  mechanical  aids  to  knowledge  are  not  sharpeners  of  the 
wits.  The  understanding  of  a  savage  is  a  kind  of  natural  alma-  5 
nac,  and  more  true  in  its  prognostication  of  the  future.  In  his 
mind's  eye  he  sees  what  has  happened  or  what  is  likely  to  hap- 
pen to  him,  "  as  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  course."  Those  who 
read  the  times  and  seasons  in  the  aspect  of  the  heavens  and  the 
configurations  of  the  stars,  who  count  by  moons  and  know  when  10 
the  sun  rises  and  sets,  are  by  no  means  ignorant  of  their  own 
affairs  or  of  the  common  concatenation  of  events.  People  in 
such  situations  have  not  their  faculties  distracted  by  any  multi- 
plicity of  inquiries  beyond  what  befalls  themselves,  and  the  out- 
ward appearances  that  mark  the  change.  There  is,  therefore,  15 
a  simplicity  and  clearness  in  the  knowledge  they  possess,  which 
often  puzzles  the  more  learned.  I  am  sometimes  surprised  at 
a  shepherd-boy  by  the  roadside,  who  sees  nothing  but  the  earth 
and  sky,  asking  me  the  time  of  day  —  he  ought  to  know  so 
much  better  than  any  one  how  far  the  sun  is  above  the  horizon.  20 
I  suppose  he  wants  to  ask  a  question  of  a  passenger,  or  to  see 
if  he  has  a  watch.  Robinson  Crusoe  lost  his  reckoning  in  the 
monotony  of  his  life  and  that  bewildering  dream  of  solitude,  and 
was  fain  to  have  recourse  to  the  notches  in  a  piece  of  wood. 
What  a  diary  was  his  !  And  how  time  must  have  spread  its  25 
circuit  round  him,  vast  and  pathless  as  the  ocean  ! 

For  myself,  I  have  never  had  a  watch  nor  any  other  mode  of 
keeping  time  in  my  possession,  nor  ever  wish  to  learn  how  time 
goes.  It  is  a  sign  I  have  had  little  to  do,  few  avocations,  few  en- 
gagements. When  I  am  in  a  town,  I  can  hear  the  clock ;  and  30 
when  I  am  in  the  countr)',  I  can  listen  to  the  silence.  What  I  like 
best  is  to  lie  whole  mornings  on  a  sunny  bank  on  Salisbury 
Plain,  without  any  object  before  me,  neither  knowing  nor  caring 
how  time  passes,  and  thus  "  with  light-winged  toys  of  feathered 


284  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

Idleness  "  to  melt  down  hours  to  moments.  Perhaps  some  such 
thoughts  as  I  have  here  set  down  float  before  me  like  motes 
before  my  half-shut  eyes,  or  some  vivid  image  of  the  past  by 
forcible  contrast  rushes  by  me  —  "  Diana  and  her  fawn,  and  all 

5  the  glories  of  the  antique  world ; "  then  I  start  away  to  prevent 
the  iron  from  entering  my  soul,  and  let  fall  some  tears  into  that 
stream  of  time  which  separates  me  farther  and  farther  from  all 
I  once  loved !  At  length  I  rouse  myself  from  my  reverie,  and 
home  to  dinner,  proud  of  killing  time  with  thought,  nay  even 

lo  without  thinking.  Somewhat  of  this  idle  humour  I  inherit  from 
my  father,  though  he  had  not  the  same  freedom  from  ennui, 
for  he  was  not  a  metaphysician  ;  and  there  were  stops  and 
vacant  intervals  in  his  being  which  he  did  not  know  how  to  fill 
up.    He  used  in  these  cases,  and  as  an  obvious  resource,  care- 

15  fully  to  wind  up  his  watch  at  night,  and  "  with  lack-lustre  eye  " 
more  than  once  in  the  course  of  the  day  look  to  see  what  o'clock 
it  was.  Yet  he  had  nothing  else  in  his  character  in  common 
with  the  elder  Mr.  Shandy.  Were  I  to  attempt  a  sketch  of  him, 
for  my  own  or  the  reader's  satisfaction,  it  would  be  after  the 

2o  following  manner :  —  but  now  I  recollect,  I  have  done  something 
of  the  kind  once  before,  and  were  I  to  resume  the  subject  here, 
some  bat  or  owl  of  a  critic,  with  spectacled  gravity,  might  swear 
I  had  stolen  the  whole  of  this  Essay  from  myself  —  or  (what  is 
worse)  from  him  !    So  I  had  better  let  it  go  as  it  is. 


ON  CANT  AND  HYPOCRISY 

"  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  teach  others  what  were  good  to  be  done, 
chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages  princes'  palaces." 

Mr.  Addison,  it  is  said,  was  fond  of  tippling ;  and  Curl,  it 
is  added,  when  he  called  on  him  in  the  morning,  used  to  ask  as 
a  particular  favour  for  a  glass  of  Canary,  by  way  of  ingrati- 
ating himself,  and  that  the  other  might  have  a  pretence  to  join 
him  and  finish  the  bottle.  He  fell  a  martyr  to  this  habit,  and  5 
yet  (some  persons  more  nice  than  wise  exclaim),  he  desired  that 
the  young  Earl  of  Warwick  might  attend  him  on  his  death-bed, 
"  to  see  how  a  Christian  could  die  !  "  I  see  no  inconsistency  nor 
hypocrisy  in  this.  A  man  may  be  a  good  Christian,  a  sound 
believer,  and  a  sincere  lover  of  virtue,  and  have,  notwithstanding,  10 
one  or  more  failings.  If  he  had  recommended  it  to  others  to 
get  drunk,  then  I  should  have  said  he  was  a  hypocrite,  and  that 
his  pretended  veneration  for  the  Christian  religion  was  a  mere 
cloak  put  on  to  suit  the  purposes  of  fashion  or  convenience. 
His  doing  what  it  condemned  was  no  proof  of  any  such  thing :  1 5 
"  The  spirit  was  willing,  but  the  flesh  was  weak."  He  is  a 
hypocrite  who  professes  what  he  does  not  believe ;  not  he  who 
does  not  practise  all  he  wishes  or  approves.  It  might  on  the 
same  ground  be  argued,  that  a  man  is  a  hypocrite  who  admires 
Raphael  or  Shakespeare,  because  he  cannot  paint  like  the  one,  20 
or  write  like  the  other.  If  any  one  really  despised  what  he 
affected  outwardly  to  admire,  this  would  be  hypocrisy.  If  he 
affected  to  admire  it  a  great  deal  more  than  he  really  did,  this 
would  be  cant.  Sincerity  has  to  do  with  the  connexion  between 
our  words  and  thoughts,  and  not  between  our  belief  and  actions.  25 

285 


286  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

The  last  constantly  belie  the  strongest  convictions  and  resolu- 
tions in  the  best  of  men  ;  it  is  only  the  base  and  dishonest  who 
give  themselves  credit  with  their  tongue,  for  sentiments  and 
opinions  which  in  their  hearts  they  disown. 
5  I  do  not  therefore  think  that  the  old  theological  maxim  — 
"  The  greater  the  sinner,  the  greater  the  saint "  —  is  so  utterly 
unfounded.  There  is  some  mixture  of  truth  in  it.  For  as  long 
as  man  is  composed  of  two  parts,  body  and  soul ;  and  while  these 
are  allowed  to  pull  different  ways,  I  see  no  reason  why,  in  propor- 

lo  tion  to  the  length  the  one  goes,  the  opposition  or  reaction  of 
the  other  should  not  be  more  violent.  It  is  certain,  for  example, 
that  no  one  makes  such  good  resolutions  as  the  sot  and  the 
gambler  in  their  moments  of  repentance,  or  can  be  more  im- 
pressed with  the  horrors  of  their  situation ;  —  should  this  dis- 

1 5  position,  instead  of  a  transient,  idle  pang,  by  chance  become  lasting, 
who  can  be  supposed  to  feel  the  beauty  of  temperance  and 
economy  more,  or  to  look  back  with  greater  gratitude  to  their 
escape  from  the  trammels  of  vice  and  passion  ?  Would  the  in- 
genious and  elegant  author  of  the  Spectator  feel  less  regard 

2o  for  the  Scriptures,  because  they  denounced  in  pointed  terms  the 
infirmity  that  "  most  easily  beset  him,"  that  was  the  torment  of 
his  life,  and  the  cause  of  his  death  ?  Such  reasoning  would  be 
true,  if  man  was  a  simple  animal  or  a  logical  machine,  and  all 
his  faculties  and  impulses  were  in  strict  unison  ;  instead  of  which 

25  they  arc  eternally  at  variance,  and  no  one  hates  or  takes  part 
against  himself  more  heartily  or  heroically  than  does  the  same 
individual.  Does  he  not  pass  sentence  on  his  own  conduct?  Is 
not  his  conscience  both  judge  and  accuser  ?  What  else  is  the 
meaning  of  all  our  resolutions  against  ourselves,  as  well  as  of 

30  our  exhortations  to  others  ?  Video  meliora  proboque,  deteriora 
seguor,  is  not  the  language  of  hypocrisy,  but  of  human  nature. 

The  hypocrisy  of  priests  has  been  a  butt  for  ridicule  in  all 
ages ;  but  I  am  not  sure  that  there  has  not  been  more  wit  than 
philosophy  in  it.    A  priest,  it  is  true,  is  obliged  to  affect  a  greater 


ON  CANT  AND  HYPOCRISY  287 

degree  of  sanctity  than  ordinary  men,  and  probably  more  than 
he  possesses ;  and  this  is  so  far,  I  am  willing  to  allow,  hypocrisy 
and  solemn  grimace.  But  I  cannot  admit,  that  though  he  may 
exaggerate,  or  even  make  an  ostentatious  display  of  religion  and 
virtue  through  habit  and  spiritual  pride,  that  this  is  a  proof  he  5 
has  not  these  sentiments  in  his  heart,  or  that  his  whole  behaviour 
is  the  mere  acting  of  a  part.  His  character,  his  motives,  are  not 
altogether  pure  and  sincere :  are  they  therefore  all  false  and 
hollow  ?  No  such  thing.  It  is  contrary  to  all  our  observation 
and  experience  so  to  interpret  it.  We  all  wear  some  disguise —  10 
make  some  professions  —  use  some  artifice  to  set  ourselves  off 
as  being  better  than  we  are ;  and  yet  it  is  not  denied  that  we 
have  some  good  intentions  and  praiseworthy  qualities  at  bottom, 
though  we  may  endeavour  to  keep  some  others  that  we  think 
less  to  our  credit  as  much  as  possible  in  the  background: —  15 
why  then  should  we  not  extend  the  same  favourable  construction 
to  monks  and  friars,  who  may  be  sometimes  caught  tripping  as 
well  as  other  men  —  with  less  excuse,  no  doubt ;  but  if  it  is  also 
with  greater  remorse  of  conscience,  which  probably  often  happens, 
their  pretensions  are  not  all  downright,  bare-faced  imposture.  20 
Their  sincerity,  compared  with  that  of  other  men,  can  only  be 
judged  of  by  the  proportion  between  the  degree  of  virtue  they 
profess,  and  that  which  they  practice,  or  at  least  carefully  seek 
to  realise.  To  conceive  it  otherwise,  is  to  insist  that  characters 
must  be  all  perfect,  or  all  vicious  —  neither  of  which  suppositions  25 
is  even  possible.  If  a  clergyman  is  notoriously  a  drunkard,  a 
debauchee,  a  glutton,  or  a  scoffer,  then  for  him  to  lay  claini  at 
the  same  time  to  extraordinary  inspirations  of  faith  or  grace,  is 
both  scandalous  and  ridiculous.  The  scene  between  the  Abbot 
and  the  poor  brother  in  the  "  Duenna  "  is  an  admirable  exposure  30 
of  this  double-faced  dealing.  But  because  a  parson  has  a  relish 
for  the  good  things  of  this  life,  or  what  is  commonly  called  a 
liquorish  tooth  in  his  head,  (beyond  what  he  would  have  it 
supposed  by  others,  or  even  by  himself,)  that  he  has  therefore 


288  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

no  fear  or  belief  of  the  next,  I  hold  for  a  crude  and  vulgar  prej- 
udice. If  a  poor  half-starved  parish  priest  pays  his  court  to  an 
olla  podrida,  or  a  venison  pasty,  with  uncommon  gusto,  shall  w^e 
say  that  he  has  no  other  sentiments  in  offering  his  devotions  to 
5  a  crucifix,  or  in  counting  his  beads  ?  I  see  no  more  ground  for 
such  an  inference,  than  for  affirming  that  Handel  was  not  in 
earnest  when  he  sat  down  to  compose  a  Symphony,  because  he 
had  at  the  same  time  perhaps  a  bottle  of  cordials  in  his  cupboard ; 
or  that  Raphael  was  not  entitled  to  the  epithet  of  divine,  because 

lo  he  was  attached  to  the  Fornarina !  Everything  has  its  turn  in 
this  chequered  scene  of  things,  unless  we  prevent  it  from  taking 
its  turn  by  over-rigid  conditions,  or  drive  men  to  despair  or  the 
most  callous  effrontery,  by  erecting  a  standard  of  perfection,  to 
which  no  one  can  conform  in  reality !  Thomson,  in  his  "  Castle 

15  of  Indolence,"  (a  subject  on  which  his  pen  ran  riot,)  has  indulged 
in  rather  a  free  description  of  "  a  little  round,  fat,  oily  man  of 
God  — 

"  Who  shone  all  glistening  with  ungodly  dew, 
If  a  tight  damsel  chanced  to  trippen  by; 

20  Which,  when  observed,  he  shrunk  into  his  mew, 

And  straight  would  recollect  his  piety  anew." 

Now,  was  the  piety  in  this  case  the  less  real,  because  it  had  been 
forgotten  for  a  moment  t  Or  even  if  this  motive  should  not  prove 
the  strongest  in  the  end,  would  this  therefore  show  that  it  was 

25  none,  which  is  necessary  to  the  argument  here  combated,  or  to 
make  out  our  little  plump  priest  a  very  knave  !  A  priest  may  be 
honest,  and  yet  err ;  as  a  woman  may  be  modest,  and  yet  half- 
inclined  to  be  a  rake.  So  the  virtue  of  prudes  may  be  suspected, 
though  not  their  sincerity.    The  strength  of  their  passions  may 

30  make  them  more  conscious  of  their  weakness,  and  more  cautious 
of  exposing  themselves ;  but  not  more  to  blind  others  than  as  a 
guard  upon  themselves.  Again,  suppose  a  clergyman  hazards  a 
jest  upon  sacred  subjects,  does  it  follow  that  he  does  not  be- 
lieve a  word  of  the  matter?    Put  the  case  that  any  one  else, 


ON  CANT  AND  HYPOCRISY  289 

encouraged  by  his  example,  takes  up  the  banter  or  levity,  and 
see  what  effect  it  will  have  upon  the  reverend  divine.  He  will 
turn  round  like  a  serpent  trod  upon,  with  all  the  vehemence  and 
asperity  of  the  most  bigoted  orthodoxy.  Is  this  dictatorial  and 
exclusive  spirit  then  put  on  merely  as  a  mask  and  to  browbeat  5 
others  ?  No  ;  but  he  thinks  he  is  privileged  to  trifle  with  the  sub- 
ject safely  himself,  from  the  store  of  evidence  he  has  in  reserve, 
and  from  the  nature  of  his  functions  ;  but  he  is  afraid  of  serious 
consequences  being  drawn  from  what  others  might  say,  or  from 
his  seeming  to  countenance  it ;  and  the  moment  the  Church  is  in  10 
danger,  or  his  own  faith  brought  in  question,  his  attachment  to 
each  becomes  as  visible  as  his  hatred  to  those  who  dare  to  im- 
pugn either  the  one  or  the  other.  A  woman's  attachment  to  her 
husband  is  not  to  be  suspected,  if  she  will  allow  no  one  to  abuse 
him  but  herself  !  It  has  been  remarked,  that  with  the  spread  of  1 5 
liberal  opinions,  or  a  more  general  scepticism  on  articles  of  faith, 
the  clergy  and  religious  persons  in  general  have  become  more 
squeamish  and  jealous  of  any  objections  to  their  favourite  doc- 
trines :  but  this  is  what  must  follow  in  the  natural  course  of 
things  —  the  resistance  being  always  in  proportion  to  the  danger ;  20 
and  arguments  and  books  that  were  formerly  allowed  to  pass 
unheeded,  because  it  was  supposed  impossible  they  could  do  any 
mischief,  are  now  denounced  or  prohibited  with  the  most  zealous 
vigilance,  from  a  knowledge  of  the  contagious  nature  of  their 
influence  and  contents.  So  in  morals,  it  is  obvious  that  the  25 
greatest  nicety  of  expression  and  allusion  must  be  observed, 
where  the  manners  are  the  most  corrupt,  and  the  imagination 
most  easily  excited,  not  out  of  mere  affectation,  but  as  a  dictate 
of  common  sense  and  decency. 

One  of  the  finest  remarks  that  has  been  made  in  modern  30 
times,  is  that  of  Lord  Shaftesbury,  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  a  perfect  Theist,  or  an  absolute  Atheist ;  that  whatever  may 
be  the  general  conviction  entertained  on  the  subject,  the  evidence 
is  not  and  cannot  be  at  all  times  equally  present  to  the  mind; 


290  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

that  even  if  it  were,  we  are  not  in  the  same  humour  to  receive 
it :  a  fit  of  the  gout,  a  shower  of  rain  shakes  our  best-established 
conclusions ;  and  according  to  circumstances  and  the  frame  of 
mind  we  are  in,  our  belief  varies  from  the  most  sanguine  enthu- 
5  siasm  to  lukewarm  indifference,  or  the  most  gloomy  despair. 
There  is  a  point  of  conceivable  faith  which  might  prevent  any 
lapse  from  virtue,  and  reconcile  all  contrarieties  between  theory 
and  practice ;  but  this  is  not  to  be  looked  for  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  nature,  and  is  reserved  for  the  abodes  of  the  blest. 

10  Here,  "  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time,"  the  utmost  we  can 
hope  to  attain  is,  a  strong  habitual  belief  in  the  excellence  of 
virtue,  or  the  dispensations  of  Providence ;  and  the  conflict  of 
the  passions,  and  their  occasional  mastery  over  us,  far  from  dis- 
proving or  destroying  this  general,  rational  conviction,  often  fling 

15  us  back  more  forcibly  upon  it,  and  like  other  infidelities  and  mis- 
understandings, produce  all  the  alternate  remorse  and  raptures 
of  repentance  and  reconciliation. 

It  has  been  frequently  remarked   that  the  most  obstinate 
heretic  or  confirmed  sceptic,  witnessing  the  service  of  the  Roman 

20  Catholic  church,  the  elevation  of  the  host  amidst  the  sounds 
of  music,  the  pomp  of  ceremonies,  the  embellishments  of  art, 
feels  himself  spell-bound ;  and  is  almost  persuaded  to  become  a 
renegade  to  his  reason  or  his  religion.  Even  in  hearing  a  vespers 
chaunted  on  the  stage,  or  in  reading  an  account  of  a  torch-light 

25  procession  in  a  romance,  a  superstitious  awe  creeps  over  the 
frame,  and  we  are  momentarily  charmed  out  of  ourselves.  When 
such  is  the  obvious  and  involuntary  influence  of  circumstances 
on  the  imagination,  shall  we  say  that  a  monkish  recluse  sur- 
rounded from  his  childhood  by  all  this  pomp,  a  stranger  to  any 

30  other  faith,  who  has  breathed  no  other  atmosphere,  and  all 
whose  meditations  are  bent  on  this  one  subject  both  by  interest 
and  habit  and  duty,  is  to  be  set  down  as  a  rank  and  heartless 
mountebank  in  the  professions  he  makes  of  belief  in  it,  because 
his  thoughts  mav  sometimes  wander  to  forbidden  subjects,  or 


ON  CANT  AND  HYPOCRISY  29 1 

his  feet  stumble  on  forbidden  ground  ?  Or  shall  not  the  deep 
shadows  of  the  woods  in  Vallombrosa  enhance  the  solemnity  of 
this  feeling,  or  the  icy  horrors  of  the  Grand  Chartreux  add  to 
its  elevation  and  its  purity  ?  To  argue  otherwise  is  to  misdeem 
of  human  nature,  and  to  limit  its  capacities  for  good  or  evil  by  5 
some  narrow-minded  standard  of  our  own.  Man  is  neither 
a  God  nor  a  brute  ;  but  there  is  a  prosaic  and  a  poetical  side  to 
everything  concerning  him,  and  it  is  as  impossible  absolutely 
and  for  a  constancy  to  exclude  either  one  or  the  other  from  the 
mind,  as  to  make  him  live  without  air  or  food.  The  ideal,  the  10 
empire  of  thought  and  aspiration  after  truth  and  good,  is  in- 
separable from  the  nature  of  an  intellectual  being  —  what  right 
have  we  then  to  catch  at  every  strife  which  in  the  mortified  pro- 
fessors of  religion  the  spirit  wages  with  the  flesh  as  grossly 
vicious,  or  at  every  doubt,  the  bare  suggestion  of  which  fills  them  1 5 
with  consternation  and  despair,  as  a  proof  of  the  most  glaring 
hypocrisy  ?  The  grossnesses  of  religion  and  its  stickling  for  mere 
forms  as  its  essence,  have  given  a  handle,  and  a  just  one,  to  its 
impugners.  At  the  feast  of  Ramadan  (says  Voltaire)  the  Mus- 
sulmans wash  and  pray  five  times  a  day,  and  then  fall  to  cutting  20 
one  another's  throats  again  with  the  greatest  deliberation  and 
good-will.  The  two  things,  I  grant,  are  sufficiently  at  variance ; 
but  they  are,  I  contend,  equally  sincere  in  both.  The  Mahometans 
are  savages,  but  they  are  not  the  less  true  believers  —  they  hate 
their  enemies  as  heartily  as  they  revere  the  Koran.  This,  instead  25 
of  showing  the  fallacy  of  the  ideal  principle,  shows  its  univer- 
sality and  indestructible  essence.  Let  a  man  be  as  bad  as  he 
will,  as  little  refined  as  possible,  and  indulge  whatever  hurtful 
passions  or  gross  vices  he  thinks  proper,  these  cannot  occupy 
the  whole  of  his  time ;  and  in  the  intervals  between  one  scoun-  30 
drel  action  and  another  he  may  and  must  have  better  thoughts, 
and  may  have  recourse  to  those  of  religion  (true  or  false)  among 
the  number,  without  in  this  being  guilty  of  hypocrisy  or  of  mak- 
ing a  jest  of  what  is  considered  as  sacred.    This,  I  take  it,  is  the 


292  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

whole  secret  of  Methodism,  which  is  a  sort  of  modern  vent  for 
the  ebullitions  of  the  spirit  through  the  gaps  of  unrighteousness. 
We  often  see  that  a  person  condemns  in  another  the  very 
thing  he  is  guilty  of  himself.  Is  this  hypocrisy  ?  It  may,  or  it 
5  may  not.  If  he  really  feels  none  of  the  disgust  and  abhorrence 
he  expresses,  this  is  quackery  and  impudence.  But  if  he  really 
expresses  what  he  feels,  (and  he  easily  may,  for  it  is  the  abstract 
idea  he  contemplates  in  the  case  of  another,  and  the  immediate 
temptation  to  which  he  yields  in  his  own,  so  that  he  probably  is 

lo  not  even  conscious  of  the  identity  or  connexion  between  the 
two,)  then  this  is  not  hypocrisy,  but  want  of  strength  and  keep- 
ing in  the  moral  sense.  All  morality  consists  in  squaring  our  actions 
and  sentiments  to  our  ideas  of  what  is  fit  and  proper ;  and  it  is 
the  incessant  struggle  and  alternate  triumph  of  the  two  principles, 

IS  the  ideal  and  the  physical,  that  keeps  up  this  "mighty  coil  and 
pudder"  about  vice  and  virtue,  and  is  one  great  source  of  all 
the  good  and  evil  in  the  world.  The  mind  of  man  is  like  a  clock 
that  is  always  running  down,  and  requires  to  be  as  constantly 
wound  up.    The  ideal  principle  is  the  master-key  that  winds  it 

20  up,  and  without  which  it  would  come  to  a  stand :  the  sensual 
and  selfish  feelings  are  the  dead  weights  that  pull  it  down  to  the 
gross  and  grovelling.  Till  the  intellectual  faculty  is  destroyed, 
(so  that  the  mind  sees  nothing  beyond  itself,  or  the  present 
moment,)  it  is  impossible  to  have  all  brutal  depravity :  till  the 

25  material  and  physical  are  done  away  with,  (so  that  it  shall  con- 
template everything  from  a  purely  spiritual  and  disinterested 
point  of  view,)  it  is  impossible  to  have  all  virtue.  There  must 
be  a  mixture  of  the  two,  as  long  as  man  is  compounded  of  oppo- 
site materials,  a  contradiction  and  an  eternal  competition  for 

30  the  mastery.  I  by  no  means  think  a  single  bad  action  condemns 
a  man,  for  he  probably  condemns  it  as  much  as  you  do ;  nor  a 
single  bad  habit,  for  he  is  probably  trying  all  his  life  to  get  rid 
of  it.  A  man  is  only  thoroughly  profligate  when  he  has  lost  the 
sense  of  right  and  wrong;  or  a  thorough  hypocrite,  when  he 


ON  CANT  AND  HYPOCRISY  293 

has  not  even  the  wish  to  be  what  he  appears.  The  greatest 
offence  against  virtue  is  to  speak  ill  of  it.  To  recommend  certain 
things  is  worse  than  to  practise  them.  There  may  be  an  excuse 
for  the  last  in  the  frailty  of  passion ;  but  the  former  can  arise 
from  nothing  but  an  utter  depravity  of  disposition.  Any  one  5 
may  yield  to  temptation,  and  yet  feel  a  sincere  love  and  aspira- 
tion after  virtue :  but  he  who  maintains  vice  in  theory,  has  not 
even  the  conception  or  capacity  for  virtue  in  his  mind.  Men 
err :  fiends  only  make  a  mock  at  goodness. 

We  sometimes  deceive  ourselves,  and  think  worse  of  human  10 
nature  than  it  deserves,  in  consequence  of  judging  of  character 
from  names,  and  classes,  and  modes  of  life.    No  one  is  simply 
and  absolutely  any  one  thing,  though  he  may  be  branded  with 
it  as  a  name.    Some  persons  have  expected  to  see  his  crimes 
written  in  the  face  of  a  murderer,  and  have  been  disappointed  15 
because  they  did  not,  as  if  this  impeached  the  distinction  be- 
tween virtue   and  vice.     Not  at  all.    The  circumstance  only 
showed  that  the  man  was  other  things,  and  had  other  feelings 
besides  those  of  a  murderer.    If  he  had  nothing  else,  —  if  he 
had  fed  on  nothing  else,  —  if  he  had  dreamt  of  nothing  else,  but  20 
schemes  of  murder,  his  features  would  have  expressed  nothing 
else :  but  this  perfection  in  vice  is  not  to  be  expected  from  the 
contradictory  and  mixed  nature  of  our  motives.    Humanity  is  to 
be  met  with  in  a  den  of  robbers ;  nay,  modesty  in  a  brothel. 
Even  among  the  most  abandoned  of  the  other  sex,  there  is  not  25 
unfrequently  found  to  exist  (contrary  to  all  that  is  generally 
supposed)  one  strong  and  individual  attachment,  which  remains 
unshaken  to  the  last.    Virtue  may  be  said  to  steal,  like  a  guilty 
thing,  into  the  secret  haunts  of  vice  and  infamy ;  it  clings  to 
their  devoted  victim,  and  will  not  be  driven  quite  away.    Noth-  30 
ing  can  destroy  the  human  heart.    Again,  there  is  a  heroism 
in  crime,  as  well  as  in  virtue.    Vice  and  infamy  have  also  their 
altars  and  their  religion.    This  makes  nothing  in  their  favour, 
but  is  a  proof  of  the  heroical  disinterestedness  of  man's  nature, 


294  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

and  that  whatever  he  does,  he  must  fling  a  dash  of  romance 
and  sublimity  into  it ;  just  as  some  grave  biographer  has  said 
of  Shakespeare,  that  "  even  when  he  killed  a  calf,  he  made  a 
speech  and  did  it  in  a  great  style." 
5  It  is  then  impossible  to  get  rid  of  this  original  distinction  and 
contradictoiy  bias,  and  to  reduce  everything  to  the  system  of 
French  levity  and  Epicurean  indifference.  Wherever  there  is  a 
capacity  of  conceiving  of  things  as  different  from  what  they  are, 
there  must  be  a  principle  of  taste  and  selection  —  a  disposition 

lo  to  make  them  better,  and  a  power  to  make  them  worse.  Ask  a 
Parisian  milliner  if  she  does  not  think  one  bonnet  more  becom- 
ing than  another  —  a  Parisian  dancing-master  if  French  grace 
is  not  better  than  English  awkwardness  —  a  French  cook  if  all 
sauces  are  alike  —  a  French  blacklegs  if  all  throws  are  equal  on 

1 5  the  dice  ?  It  is  curious  that  the  French  nation  restrict  rigid 
rules  and  fixed  principles  to  cookery  and  the  drama,  and  main- 
tain that  the  great  drama  of  human  life  is  entirely  a  matter  of 
caprice  and  fancy.  No  one  will  assert  that  Raphael's  histories, 
that  Claude's  landscapes  are  not  better  than  a  daub :  but  if  the 

2o  expression  in  one  of  Raphael's  faces  is  better  than  the  most 
mean  and  vulgar,  how  resist  the  consequence  that  the  feeling 
so  expressed  is  better  also  ?  It  does  not  appear  to  me  that  all 
faces  or  all  actions  are  alike.  If  goodness  were  only  a  theory, 
it  were  a  pity  it  should  be  lost  to   the  world.    There  are  a 

25  number  of  things,  the  idea  of  which  is  a  clear  gain  to  the  mind. 
Let  people,  for  instance,  rail  at  friendship,  genius,  freedom,  as 
long  as  they  will  —  the  very  names  of  these  despised  qualities 
are  better  than  anything  else  that  could  be  substituted  for 
them,  and  embalm  even  the  most  envenomed  satire  against 

30  them.  It  is  no  small  consideration  that  the  mind  is  capable  even 
of  feigning  such  things.  So  I  would  contend  against  that  rea- 
soning which  would  have  it  thought  that  if  religion  is  not  true, 
there  is  no  difference  between  mankind  and  the  beasts  that 
perish  ;  —  I  should  say,  that  this  distinction  is  equally  proved,  if 


ON  CANT  AND  HYPOCRISY  295 

religion  is  supposed  to  be  a  mere  fabrication  of  the  human 
mind ;  the  capacity  to  conceive  it  makes  the  difference.  The 
idea  alone  of  an  over-ruling  Providence,  or  of  a  future  state,  is 
as  much  a  distinctive  mark  of  a  superiority  of  nature,  as  the 
invention  of  the  mathematics,  which  are  true,  —  or  of  poetry,  5 
which  is  a  fable.  Whatever  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  our  spec- 
ulations, the  power  to  make  them  is  peculiar  to  ourselves. 

The  contrariety  and  warfare  of  different  faculties  and  dis- 
positions within  us  has  not  only  given  birth  to  the  Manichean 
and  Gnostic  heresies,  and  to  other  superstitions  of  the  East,  but  10 
will  account  for  many  of  the  mummeries  and  dogmas  both  of 
Popery  and  Calvinism,  —  confession,  absolution,  justification  by 
faith,  &c. ;  which,  in  the  hopelessness  of  attaining  perfection, 
and  our  dissatisfaction  with  ourselves  for  falling  short  of  it,  are 
all  substitutes  for  actual  virtue,  and  an  attempt  to  throw  the  15 
burthen  of  a  task,  to  which  we  are  unequal  or  only  half  dis- 
posed, on  the  merits  of  others,  or  on  outward  forms,  cere- 
monies, and  professions  of  faith.    Hence  the  crowd  of 

"  Eremites  and  friars, 
White,  black,  and  grey,  with  all  their  trumpery."  20 

If  we  do  not  conform  to  the  law,  we  at  least  acknowledge 
the  jurisdiction  of  the  court.  A  person  does  wrong ;  he  is  sorry 
for  it ;  and  as  he  still  feels  himself  liable  to  error,  he  is  desirous 
to  make  atonement  as  well  as  he  can,  by  ablutions,  by  tithes,  by 
penance,  by  sacrifices,  or  other  voluntary  demonstrations  of  25 
obedience,  which  are  in  his  power,  though  his  passions  are  not, 
and  which  prove  that  his  will  is  not  refractory,  and  that  his 
understanding  is  right  towards  God.  The  stricter  tenets  of 
Calvinism,  which  allow  of  no  medium  between  grace  and  rep- 
robation, and  doom  man  to  eternal  punishment  for  every  breach  30 
of  the  moral  law,  as  an  equal  offence  against  infinite  truth  and 
justice,  proceed  (like  the  paradoxical  doctrine  of  the  Stoics) 
from  taking  a  half -view  of  this  subject,  and  considering  man 


296  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

as  amenable  only  to  the  dictates  of  his  understanding  and  his 
conscience,  and  not  excusable  from  the  temptations  and  frailty 
of  human  ignorance  and  passion.  The  mixing  up  of  religion 
and  morality  together,  or  the  making  us  accountable  for  every 
5  word,  thought,  or  action,  under  no  less  a  responsibility  than  our 
everlasting  future  welfare  or  misery,  has  also  added  incalculably 
to  the  difificulti^s  of  self-knowledge,  has  superinduced  a  violent 
and  spurious  state  of  feeling,  and  made  it  almost  impossible  to 
distinguish  the  boundaries  between  the  true  and  false,  in  judging 

10  of  human  conduct  and  motives.  A  religious  man  is  afraid  of 
looking  into  the  state  of  his  soul,  lest  at  the  same  time  he  should 
reveal  it  to  Heaven ;  and  tries  to  persuade  himself  that  by  shut- 
ting his  eyes  to  his  true  character  and  feelings,  they  will  remain 
a  profound  secret  both  here  and  hereafter.    This  is  a  strong 

1 5  engine  and  irresistible  inducement  to  self-deception ;  and  the 
more  zealous  any  one  is  in  his  convictions  of  the  truth  of  religion, 
the  more  we  may  suspect  the  sincerity  of  his  pretensions  to 
piety  and  morality. 

Thus,  though  I  think  there  is  very  little  downright  hypocrisy 

20  in  the  world,  I  do  think  there  is  a  great  deal  of  cant  — "cant  re- 
ligious, cant  political,  cant  literary,"  &c.,  as  Lord  Byron  said. 
Though  few  people  have  the  face  to  set  up  for  the  very  thing 
they  in  their  hearts  despise,  we  almost  all  want  to  be  thought 
better  than  we  are,  and  affect  a  greater  admiration  or  abhorrence 

25  of  certain  things  than  we  really  feel.  Indeed,  some  degree  of 
affectation  is  as  necessary  to  the  mind  as  dress  is  to  the  body ; 
we  must  overact  our  part  in  some  measure,  in  order  to  produce 
any  effect  at  all.  There  was  formerly  the  two  hours'  sermon,  the 
long-winded  grace,  the  nasal  drawl,  the  uplifted  hands  and  eyes  ; 

30  all  which,  though  accompanied  with  some  corresponding  emotion, 
expressed  more  than  was  really  felt,  and  were  in  fact  intended 
to  make  up  for  the  conscious  deficiency.  As  our  interest  in 
anything  wears  out  with  time  and  habit,  we  exaggerate  the  out- 
ward symptoms  of  zeal  as  mechanical  helps  to  devotion,  dwell 


ON  CANT  AND  HYPOCRISY  297 

the  longer  on  our  words  as  they  are  less  felt,  and  hence  the 
very  origin  of  the  term,  cant.  The  cant  of  sentimentality  has 
succeeded  to  that  of  religion.  There  is  a  cant  of  humanity, 
of  patriotism  and  loyalty  —  not  that  people  do  not  feel  these 
emotions,  but  they  make  too  great  Vifuss  about  them,  and  drawl  5 
out  the  expression  of  them  till  they  tire  themselves  and  others. 
There  is  a  cant  about  Shakespeare.  There  is  a  cant  about 
Political  Eco?iomy  just  now.  In  short,  there  is  and  must  be  a 
cant  about  everything  that  excites  a  considerable  degree  of 
attention  and  interest,  and  that  people  would  be  thought  to  10 
know  and  care  rather  more  about  than  they  actually  do.  Cant 
is  the  voluntary  overcharging  or  prolongation  of  a  real  senti- 
ment ;  hypocrisy  is  the  setting  up  a  pretension  to  a  feeling  you 
never  had  and  have  no  wish  for.  Mr.  Coleridge  is  made  up 
of  cant,  that  is,  of  mawkish  affectation  and  sensibility;  but  he  15 
has  not  sincerity  enough  to  be  a  hypocrite,  that  is,  he  has  not 
hearty  dislike  or  contempt  enough  for  anything,  to  give  the  lie 
to  his  puling  professions  of  admiration  and  esteem  for  it.  The 
fuss  that  Mr.  Liberal  Snake  makes  about  Political  Economy  is 
not  cant,  but  what  Mr.  Theodore  Hook  politely  calls  hiimhitg ;  20 
he  himself  is  hardly  the  dupe  of  his  own  pompous  reasoning, 
but  he  wishes  to  make  it  the  stalking-horse  of  his  ambition  or 
interest  to  sneak  into  a  place  and  curry  favour  with  the 
Government. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  ESSAY-WRITING 

"  This  life  is  best,  if  quiet  life  is  best." 

Food,  warmth,  sleep,  and  a  book ;  these  are  all  I  at  present 

ask  —  the  ultima  thule  of  my  wandering  desires.    Do  you  not 

then  wish  for 
e  "A  friend  in  your  retreat, 

Whom  you  may  whisper,  solitude  is  sweet  ? " 

Expected,  well  enough  :  —  gone,  still  better.  Such  attractions  are 
strengthened  by  distance.  Nor  a  mistress  ?  "  Beautiful  mask ! 
I  know  thee !  "    When  I  can  judge  of  the  heart  from  the  face, 

lo  of  the  thoughts  from  the  lips,  I  may  again  trust  myself.  Instead 
of  these,  give  me  the  robin  red-breast,  pecking  the  crumbs  at  the 
door,  or  warbling  on  the  leafless  spray,  the  same  glancing  form 
that  has  followed  me  wherever  I  have  been,  and  "  done  its  spirit- 
ing gently  ;  "  or  the  rich  notes  of  the  thrush  that  startle  the  ear 

15  ©f  winter,  and  seem  to  have  drunk  up  the  full  draught  of  joy 
from  the  very  sense  of  contrast.  To  these  I  adhere  and  am 
faithful,  for  they  are  true  to  me;  and,  dear  in  themselves,  are 
dearer  for  the  sake  of  what  is  departed,  leading  me  back  (by  the 
hand)  to  that  dreaming  world,  in  the  innocence  of  which  they 

20  sat  and  made  sweet  music,  waking  the  promise  of  future  years, 
and  answered  by  the  eager  throbbings  of  my  own  breast.  But 
now  "  the  credulous  hope  of  mutual  minds  is  o'er,"  and  I  turn 
back  from  the  world  that  has  deceived  me,  to  nature  that  lent 
it  a  false  beauty,  and  that  keeps  up  the  illusion  of  the  past.    As 

25  I  quaff  my  libations  of  tea  in  a  morning,  I  love  to  watch  the 
clouds  sailing  from  the  west,  and  fancy  that  "  the  spring  comes 
slowly  up  this  way."  In  this  hope,  while  "  fields  are  dank  and 
ways  are  mire,"  I  follow  the  same  direction  to  a  neighbouring 

298 


A  FAREWELL  TO  ESSAY-WRITING  299 

wood,  where,  having  gained  the  dry,  level  greensward,  I  can  see 
my  way  for  a  mile  before  me,  closed  in  on  each  side  by  copse- 
wood,  and  ending  in  a  point  of  light  more  or  less  brilliant,  as  the 
day  is  bright  or  cloudy.  What  a  walk  is  this  to  me !  I  have  no 
need  of  book  or  companion  —  the  days,  the  hours,  the  thoughts  5 
of  my  youth  are  at  my  side,  and  blend  with  the  air  that  fans  my 
cheek.  Here  I  can  saunter  for  hours,  bending  my  eye  forward, 
stopping  and  turning  to  look  back,  thinking  to  strike  off  into 
some  less  trodden  path,  yet  hesitating  to  quit  the  one  I  am  in, 
afraid  to  snap  the  brittle  threads  of  memor}'.  I  remark  the  shin-  10 
ing  trunks  and  slender  branches  of  the  birch  trees,  waving  in  the 
idle  breeze ;  or  a  pheasant  springs  up  on  whirring  wing ;  or  I 
recall  the  spot  where  I  once  found  a  wood-pigeon  at  the  foot  of 
a  tree,  weltering  in  its  gore,  and  think  how  many  seasons  have 
flown  since  "it  left  its  little  life  in  air."  Dates,  names,  faces  15 
come  back  —  to  what  purpose  ?  Or  why  think  of  them  now  ? 
Or  rather,  why  not  think  of  them  oftener .-'  We  walk  through  life, 
as  through  a  narrow  path,  with  a  thin  curtain  drawn  around  it ; 
behind  are  ranged  rich  portraits,  airy  harps  are  strung  —  yet  we 
will  not  stretch  forth  our  hands  and  lift  aside  the  veil,  to  catch  20 
glimpses  of  the  one,  or  sweep  the  chords  of  the  other.  As  in  a 
theatre,  when  the  old-fashioned  green  curtain  drew  up,  groups 
of  figures,  fantastic  dresses,  laughing  faces,  rich  banquets,  stately 
columns,  gleaming  vistas  appeared  beyond ;  so  we  have  only  at 
any  time  to  "  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  past,"  to  possess  25 
ourselves  at  once  of  all  that  has  regaled  our  senses,  that  is  stored 
up  in  our  memor)',  that  has  struck  our  fancy,  that  has  pierced 
our  hearts :  —  yet  to  all  this  we  are  indifferent,  insensible,  and 
seem  intent  only  on  the  present  vexation,  the  future  disappoint- 
ment. If  there  is  a  Titian  hanging  up  in  the  room  with  me,  I  30 
scarcely  regard  it :  how  then  should  I  be  expected  to  strain  the 
mental  eye  so  far,  or  to  throw  down,  by  the  magic  spells  of  the 
will,  the  stone-walls  that  enclose  it  in  the  Louvre .-'  There  is  one 
head  there  of  which  I  have  often  thought,  when  looking  at  it, 


300  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

that  nothing  should  ever  disturb  me  again,  and  I  would  become 
the  character  it  represents  —  such  perfect  calmness  and  self- 
possession  reigns  in  it !  Why  do  I  not  hang  an  image  of  this  in 
some  dusky  corner  of  my  brain,  and  turn  an  eye  upon  it  ever 
5  and  anon,  as  I  have  need  of  some  such  talisman  to  calm  my 
troubled  thoughts  ?  The  attempt  is  fruitless,  if  not  natural ;  or, 
like  that  of  the  French,  to  hang  garlands  on  the  grave,  and  to 
conjure  back  the  dead  by  miniature  pictures  of  them  virhile  living! 
It  is  only  some  actual  coincidence,  or  local  association  that  tends, 

lo  without  violence,  to  "open  all  the  cells  where  memory  slept." 
I  can  easily,  by  stooping  over  the  long-sprent  grass  and  clay-cold 
clod,  recall  the  tufts  of  primroses,  or  purple  hyacinths,  that  for- 
merly grew  on  the  same  spot,  and  cover  the  bushes  with  leaves 
and  singing-birds,  as  they  were  eighteen  summers  ago ;  or  pro- 

15  longing  my  walk  and  hearing  the  sighing  gale  rustle  through  a 
tall,  strait  wood  at  the  end  of  it,  can  fancy  that  I  distinguish 
the  cry  of  hounds,  and  the  fatal  group  issuing  from  it,  as  in  the 
tale  of  Theodore  and  Honoria.  A  moaning  gust  of  wind  aids  the 
belief ;  I  look  once  more  to  see  whether  the  trees  before  me 

20  answer  to  the  idea  of  the  horror-stricken  grove,  and  an  air-built 
city  towers  over  their  grey  tops. 

"  Of  all  the  cities  in  Romanian  lands, 
The  chief  and  most  renown'd  Ravenna  stands." 

I  return  home  resolved  to  read  the  entire  poem  through,  and, 
25  after  dinner,  drawing  my  chair  to  the  fire,  and  holding  a  small 
print  close  to  my  eyes,  launch  into  the  full  tide  of  Dr}^den's 
couplets  (a  stream  of  sound),  comparing  his  didactic  and  de- 
scriptive pomp  with  the  simple  pathos  and  picturesque  truth  of 
Boccacio's  story,  and  tasting  with  a  pleasure,  which  none  but  an 
30  habitual  reader  can  feel,  some  quaint  examples  of  pronunciation 
in  this  accomplished  versifier. 

"  Which  when  Honoria  view'd, 
The  fresh  itnpiclse  her  former  fright  renew'd." 

Theodore  and  Honoria 


A  FAREWELL  TO  ESSAY-WRITING  30 1 

"And  made  th'  insult,  which  in  his  grief  appears, 
The  means  to  mourn  thee  with  my  pious  tears." 

Sigismonda  and  Guiscardo 

These  trifling  instances  of  the  wavering  and  unsettled  state  of 
the  language  give  double  effect  to  the  firm  and  stately  march 
of  the  verse,  and  make  me  dwell  with  a  sort  of  tender  interest  5 
on  the  difficulties  and  doubts  of  an  earlier  period  of  literature. 
They  pronounced  words  then  in  a  manner  which  we  should  laugh 
at  now ;  and  they  wrote  verse  in  a  manner  which  we  can  do 
anything  but  laugh  at.  The  pride  of  a  new  acquisition  seems  to 
give  fresh  confidence  to  it ;  to  impel  the  rolling  syllables  through  10 
the  moulds  provided  for  them,  and  to  overflow  the  envious 
bounds  of  rhyme  into  time-honoured  triplets.  I  am  much  pleased 
with  Leigh  Hunt's  mention  of  Moore's  involuntary  admiration 
of  Dryden's  free,  unshackled  verse,  and  of  his  repeating  con 
amore,  and  with  an  Irish  spirit  and  accent,  the  fine  lines —  15 

"  Let  honour  and  preferment  go  for  gold. 
But  glorious  beauty  is  n't  to  be  sold." 

What  sometimes  surprises  me  in  looking  back  to  the  past,  is, 
with  the  exception  already  stated,  to  find  myself  so  little  changed 
in  the  time.  The  same  images  and  trains  of  thought  stick  by  20 
me :  I  have  the  same  tastes,  likings,  sentiments,  and  wishes 
that  I  had  then.  One  great  ground  of  confidence  and  support 
has,  indeed,  been  struck  from  under  my  feet ;  but  I  have  made 
it  up  to  myself  by  proportionable  pertinacity  of  opinion.  The 
success  of  the  great  cause,  to  which  I  had  vowed  myself,  was  25 
to  me  more  than  all  the  world :  I  had  a  strength  in  its  strength, 
a  resource  which  I  knew  not  of,  till  it  failed  me  for  the  second 

time. 

"  Fall'n  was  Glenartny's  stately  tree  ! 
Oh  !  ne'er  to  see  Lord  Ronald  more  !  "  30 

It  was  not  till  I  saw  the  axe  laid  to  the  root,  that  I  found  the 
full  extent  of  what  I  had  to  lose  and  suffer.  But  my  conviction 
of  the  right  was  only  established  by  the  triumph  of  the  wrong ; 


302  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

and  my  earliest  hopes  will  be  my  last  regrets.  One  source  of 
this  unbendingness,  (which  some  may  call  obstinacy)  is  that, 
though  living  much  alone,  I  have  never  worshipped  the  Echo. 
I  see  plainly  enough  that  black  is  not  white,  that  the  grass  is 
5  green,  that  kings  are  not  their  subjects  ;  and,  in  such  self-evident 
cases,  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  collate  my  opinions  with  the 
received  prejudices.  In  subtler  questions,  and  matters  that  admit 
of  doubt,  as  I  do  not  impose  my  opinion  on  others  without 
a  reason,  so  I  will  not  give  up  mine  to  them  without  a  better 

lo  reason ;  and  a  person  calling  me  names,  or  giving  himself  airs 
of  authority,  does  not  convince  me  of  his  having  taken  more 
pains  to  find  out  the  truth  than  I  have,  but  the  contrary.  Mr. 
Gifford  once  said,  that  ""  while  I  was  sitting  over  my  gin  and 
tobacco-pipes,  I  fancied  myself  a  Leibnitz."   He  did  not  so  much 

1 5  as  know  that  I  had  ever  read  a  metaphysical  book :  —  was  I 
therefore,  out  of  complaisance  or  deference  to  him,  to  forget 
whether  I  had  or  not }  I  am  rather  disappointed,  both  on  my 
own  account  and  his,  that  Mr.  Hunt  has  missed  the  opportunity 
of  explaining  the  character  of  a  friend,  as  clearly  as  he  might 

20  have  done.  He  is  puzzled  to  reconcile  the  shyness  of  my  pre- 
tensions with  the  inveteracy  and  sturdiness  of  my  principles. 
I  should  have  thought  they  were  nearly  the  same  thing.  Both 
from  disposition  and  habit,  I  can  assume  nothing  in  word,  look, 
or  manner.    I  cannot  steal  a  march  upon  public  opinion  in  any 

25  way.  My  standing  upright,  speaking  loud,  entering  a  room 
gracefully,  proves  nothing ;  therefore  I  neglect  these  ordinary 
means  of  recommending  myself  to  the  good  graces  and  admira- 
tion of  strangers,  (and,  as  it  appears,  even  of  philosophers  and 
friends).    Why  ?    Because  I  have  other  resources,  or,  at  least, 

30  am  absorbed  in  other  studies  and  pursuits.  Suppose  this  absorp- 
tion tt)  be  extreme,  and  even  morbid  —  that  I  have  brooded  over 
an  idea  till  it  has  become  a  kind  of  substance  in  my  biain,  that 
I  have  reasons  for  a  thing  which  I  have  found  out  with  much 
labour  and  pains,  and  to  which  I  can  scarcely  do  justice  without 


A  FAREWELL  TO  ESSAY-WRITING  303 

the  utmost  violence  of  exertion  (and  that  only  to  a  few  persons) 
—  is  this  a  reason  for  my  playing  off  my  out-of-the-way  notions 
in  all  companies,  wearing  a  prim  and  self-complacent  air,  as  if 
I  were  "  the  admired  of  all  observers  ? "  or  is  it  not  rather  an 
argument,  (together  with  a  want  of  animal  spirits),  why  I  should  5 
retire  into  myself,  and  perhaps  acquire  a  nervous  and  uneasy 
look,  from  a  consciousness  of  the  disproportion  between  the 
interest  and  conviction  I  feel  on  certain  subjects,  and  my  ability 
to  communicate  what  weighs  upon  my  own  mind  to  others  ?  If 
my  ideas,  which  I  do  not  avouch,  but  suppose,  lie  below  the  10 
surface,  why  am  I  to  be  always  attempting  to  dazzle  super- 
ficial people  with  them,  or  smiling,  delighted,  at  my  own  want 
of  success? 

What  I  have  here  stated  is  only  the  excess  of  the  common 
and  well-known  English  and  scholastic  character.  I  am  neither  15 
a  buffoon,  a  fop,  nor  a  Frenchman,  which  Mr.  Hunt  would  have 
me  to  be.  He  finds  it  odd  that  I  am  a  close  reasoner  and  a- 
loose  dresser.  I  have  been  (among  other  follies)  a  hard  liver  as 
well  as  a  hard  thinker ;  and  the  consequences  of  that  will  not 
allow  me  to  dress  as  I  please.  People  in  real  life  are  not  like  20 
players  on  a  stage,  who  put  on  a  certain  look  or  costume,  merely 
for  effect.  I  am  aware,  indeed,  that  the  gay  and  airy  pen  of  the 
author  does  not  seriously  probe  the  errors  or  misfortunes  of  his 
friends  —  he  only  glances  at  their  seeming  peculiarities,  so  as  to 
make  them  odd  and  ridiculous;  for  which  forbearance  few  of  25 
them  will  thank  him.  Why  does  he  assert  that  I  was  vain  of  my 
hair  when  it  was  black,  and  am  equally  vain  of  it  now  it  is  grey, 
when  this  is  true  in  neither  case  ?  This  transposition  of  motives 
makes  me  almost  doubt  whether  Lord  Byron  was  thinking  so 
much  of  the  rings  on  his  fingers  as  his  biographer  was.  .  These  30 
sort  of  criticisms  should  be  left  to  women.  I  am  made  to  wear 
a  little  hat,  stuck  on  the  top  of  my  head  the  wrong  way.  Nay, 
I  commonly  wear  a  large  slouching  hat  over  my  eyebrows  ;  and 
if  ever  I  had  another,  I  must  have  twisted  it  about  in  any  shape 


304  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

to  get  rid  of  the  annoyance.  This  probably  tickled  Mr.  Hunt's 
fancy,  and  retains  possession  of  it,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  obvious 
truism,  that  I  naturally  wear  "  a  melancholy  hat." 

I  am  charged  with  using  strange  gestures  and  contortions  of 
5  features  in  argument,  in  order  to  "  look  energetic."  One  would 
rather  suppose  that  the  heat  of  the  argument  produced  the 
extravagance  of  the  gestures,  as  I  am  said  to  be  calm  at  other 
times.  It  is  like  saying  that  a  man  in  a  passion  clenches  his 
teeth,  not  because  he  is,  but  in  order  to  seem,  angry.    Why 

lo  should  everything  be  construed  into  air  and  affectation  ?  With 
Hamlet,  I  may  say,  "  I  know  not  seems. "" 

Again,  my  old  friend  and  pleasant  "  Companion  "  remarks  it, 
as  an  anomaly  in  my  character,  that  I  crawl  about  the  Fives- 
Court  like  a  cripple  till  I  get  the  racket  in  my  hand,  when  I 

IS  start  up  as  if  I  was  possessed  with  a  devil.  I  have  then  a 
motive  for  exertion ;  I  lie  by  for  difficulties  and  extreme  cases. 
Aut  Ccesar  auf  niillus.  I  have  no  notion  of  doing  nothing  with 
an  air  of  importance,  nor  should  I  ever  take  a  liking  to  the 
game  of  batdedoor  and  shutriecock.    I  have  only  seen  by  acci- 

20  dent  a  page  of  the  unpublished  Manuscript  relating  to  the 
present  subject,  which  I  dare  say  is,  on  the  whole,  friendly  and 
just,  and  which  has  been  suppressed  as  being  too  favourable, 
considering  certain  prejudices  against  me. 

In  matters  of  taste  and  feeling,  one  proof  that  my  conclusions 

25  have  not  been  quite  shallow  or  hasty,  is  the  circumstance  of  their 
having  been  lasting.  I  have  the  same  favourite  books,  pictures, 
passages  that  I  ever  had :  I  may  therefore  presume  that  they 
will  last  me  my  life  —  nay,  I  may  indulge  a  hope  that  my 
thoughts  will  survive  me.    This  continuity  of  impression  is  the 

30  only  thing  on  which  I  pride  myself.    Even  L  ,  whose  relish 

on  certain  things  is  as  keen  and  earnest  as  possible,  takes  a 
surfeit  of  admiration,  and  I  should  be  afraid  to  ask  about  his 
select  authors  or  particular  friends,  after  a  lapse  of  ten  years. 
As  to  myself,  any  one  knows  where  to  have  me.    What  I  have 


A  FAREWELL  TO  ESSAY-WRITING  305 

once  made  up  my  mind  to,  I  abide  by  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
One  cause  of  my  independence  of  opinion  is,  I  believe,  the 
liberty  I  give  to  others,  or  the  very  diffidence  and  distrust  of 
making  converts.  I  should  be  an  excellent  man  on  a  jury : 
I  might  say  little,  but  should  starve  "  the  other  eleven  obstinate  5 
fellows  "  out.  I  remember  Mr.  Godwin  writing  to  Mr.  Words- 
worth, that  "  his  tragedy  of  Antonio  could  not  fail  of  success." 
It  was  damned  past  all  redemption.  I  said  to  Mr.  Wordsworth 
that  I  thought  this  a  natural  consequence ;  for  how  could  any 
one  have  a  dramatic  turn  of  mind  who  judged  entirely  of  others  10 
from  himself }  Mr.  Godwin  might  be  convinced  of  the  excellence 
of  his  work ;  but  how  could  he  know  that  others  would  be  con- 
vinced of  it,  unless  by  supposing  that  they  were  as  wise  as  him- 
self, and  as  infallible  critics  of  dramatic  poetry  —  so  many 
Aristotles  sitting  in  judgment  on  Euripides!  This  shows  why  15 
pride  is  connected  with  shyness  and  reserve ;  for  the  really 
proud  have  not  so  high  an  opinion  of  the  generality  as  to  sup- 
pose that  they  can  understand  them,  or  that  there  is  any 
common  measure  between  them.  So  Dryden  exclaims  of  his 
opponents  with  bitter  disdain  —  20 

"  Nor  can  I  think  what  thoughts  they  can  conceive." 

I  have  not  sought  to  make  partisans,  still  less  did  I  dream  of 
making  enemies ;  and  have  therefore  kept  my  opinions  myself, 
whether  they  were  currently  adopted  or  not.  To  get  others  to 
come  into  our  ways  of  thinking,  we  must  go  over  to  theirs  ;  and  25 
it  is  necessary  to  follow,  in  order  to  lead.  At  the  time  I  lived 
here  formerly,  I  had  no  suspicion  that  I  should  ever  become  a 
voluminous  writer ;  yet  I  had  just  the  same  confidence  in  my 
feelings  before  I  had  ventured  to  air  them  in  public  as  I  have 
now.  Neither  the  outcry  y?;/'  or  against  moves  me  a  jot :  I  do  30 
not  say  that  the  one  is  not  more  agreeable  than  the  other. 

Not  far  from  the  spot  where  I  write,  I  first  read  Chaucer's 
Flower  atid  Leaf,  and  was  charmed  with  that  young  beaut)'. 


3o6  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

shrouded  in  her  bower,  and  listening  with  ever-fresh  delight  to 
the  repeated  song  of  the  nightingale  close  by  her  —  the  impres- 
sion of  the  scene,  the  vernal  landscape,  the  cool  of  the  morning, 
the  gushing  notes  of  the  songstress, 

5  "  And  ayen,  methought  she  sung  close  by  mine  ear," 

is  as  vivid  as  if  it  had  been  of  yesterday ;  and  nothing  can  per- 
suade me  that  that  is  not  a  fine  poem.  I  do  not  find  this  im- 
pression conveyed  in  Dryden's  version,  and  therefore  nothing 
can  persuade  me  that  that  is  as  fine.    I  used  to  walk  out  at  this 

lo  time  with  Mr.  and  Miss  L of  an  evening,  to  look  at  the 

Claude  Lorraine  skies  over  our  heads,  melting  from  azure  into 
purple  and  gold,  and  to  gather  mushrooms,  that  sprung  up  at 
our  feet,  to  throw  into  our  hashed  mutton  at  supper.  I  was  at 
that  time  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  Claude,  and  could  dwell  for 

15  ever  on  one  or  two  of  the  finest  prints  from  him  hung  round 
my  little  room  ;  the  fleecy  flocks,  the  bending  trees,  the  winding 
streams,  the  groves,  the  nodding  temples,  the  air-wove  hills,  and 
distant  sunny  vales  ;  and  tried  to  translate  them  into  their  lovely 
living  hues.    People  then  told  me  that  Wilson  was  much  superior 

20  to  Claude.  I  did  not  believe  them.  Their  pictures  have  since 
been  seen  together  at  the  British  Institution,  and  all  the  world 
have  come  into  my  opinion.  I  have  not,  on  that  account,  given 
it  up.  I  will  not  compare  our  hashed  mutton  with  Amelia's ; 
but  it  put  us  in  mind  of  it,  and  led  to  a  discussion,  sharply 

25  seasoned  and  well  sustained,  till  midnight,  the  result  of  which 
appeared  some  years  after  in  the  Pxlinburgh  Review.  Have  I 
a  better  opinion  of  those  criticisms  on  that  account,  or  should  I 
therefore  maintain  them  with  greater  vehemence  and  tenacious- 
ness  ?  Oh  no  !    Both  rather  with  less,  now  that  they  are  before 

30  the  public,  and  it  is  for  them  to  make  their  election. 

It  is  in  looking  back  to  such  scenes  that  I  draw  my  best  con- 
solation for  the  future.  Later  impressions  come  and  go,  and 
serve  to  fill  up  the  intervals  ;  but  these  are  my  standing  resource, 


A  FAREWELL  TO  ESSAY-WRITING  307 

my  true  classics.  If  I  have  had  few  real  pleasures  or  advantages, 
my  ideas,  from  their  sinewy  texture,  have  been  to  me  in  the 
nature  of  realities ;  and  if  I  should  not  be  able  to  add  to  the 
stock,  I  can  live  by  husbanding  the  interest.  As  to  my  specula- 
tions, there  is  little  to  admire  in  them  but  my  admiration  of  5 
others ;  and  whether  they  have  an  echo  in  time  to  come  or  not, 
I  have  learned  to  set  a  grateful  value  on  the  past,  and  am  con- 
tent to  wind  up  the  account  of  what  is  personal  only  to  myself 
and  the  immediate  circle  of  objects  in  which  I  have  moved,  with 
an  act  of  easy  oblivion,  10 

"  And  curtain  close  such  scene  from  every  future  view. 


THE  SICK  CHAMBER 

What  a  difference  between  this  subject  and  my  last  —  a  "  Free 
Admission  !  "  Yet  from  the  crowded  theatre  to  the  sick  chamber, 
from  the  noise,  the  glare,  the  keen  delight,  to  the  loneliness,  the 
darkness,  the  dulness,  and  the  pain,  there  is  but  one  step.  A 
5  breath  of  air,  an  overhanging  cloud,  effects  it ;  and  though  the 
transition  is  made  in  an  instant,  it  seems  as  if  it  would  last  for 
ever.  A  sudden  illness  not  only  puts  a  stop  to  the  career  of 
our  triumphs  and  agreeable  sensations,  but  blots  out  and  cancels 
all  recollection  of  and  desire  for  them.  We  lose  the  relish  of 

lo  enjoyment ;  we  are  effectually  cured  of  our  romance.  Our 
bodies  are  confined  to  our  beds  ;  nor  can  our  thoughts  wantonly 
detach  themselves  and  take  the  road  to  pleasure,  but  turn  back 
with  doubt  and  loathing  at  the  faint  evanescent  phantom  which 
has  usurped  its  place.    If  the  folding-doors  of  the  imagination 

15  were  thrown  open  or  left  a-jar,  so  that  from  the  disordered 
couch  where  we  lay,  we  could  still  hail  the  vista  of  the  past  or 
future,  and  see  the  gay  and  gorgeous  visions  floating  at  a  dis- 
tance, however  denied  to  our  embrace,  the  contrast,  though 
mortifying,   might   have   something   soothing   in  it,   the  mock- 

20  splendour  might  be  the  greater  for  the  actual  gloom :  but  the 
misery  is  that  we  cannot  conceive  anything  beyond  or  better 
than  the  present  evil ;  we  are  shut  up  and  spell-bound  in  that, 
the  curtains  of  the  mind  are  drawn  close,  we  cannot  escape  from 
"  the  body  of  this  death,"  our  souls  are  conquered,  dismayed, 

25  "  cooped  and  cabined  in,"  and  thrown  with  the  lumber  of  our 
corporeal  frames  in  one  comer  of  a  neglected  and  solitary  room. 
We  hate  ourselves  and  every  thing  else ;  nor  does  one  ray  of 
comfort   "  peep  through  the  JDlankct  of  the  dark  "  to  give  us 

308 


THE  SICK  CHAMBER  309 

hope.  How  should  we  entertain  the  image  of  grace  and  beauty, 
when  our  bodies  writhe  with  pain  ?  To  what  purpose  invoke 
the  echo  of  some  rich  strain  of  music,  when  we  ourselves  can 
scarcely  breathe  ?  The  very  attempt  is  an  impossibility.  We 
give  up  the  vain  task  of  linking  delight  to  agony,  of  urging  tor-  5 
por  into  ecstasy,  which  makes  the  very  heart  sick.  We  feel  the 
present  pain,  and  an  impatient  longing  to  get  rid  of  it.  This 
were  indeed  "  a  consummation  devoutly  to  be  wished  :  "  on  this 
we  are  intent,  in  earnest,  inexorable :  all  else  is  impertinence 
and  folly ;  and  could  we  but  obtain  ease  (that  Goddess  of  the  10 
infirm  and  suffering)  at  any  price,  we  think  we  could  forswear 
all  other  joy  and  all  other  sorrows.  Hoc  efat  in  votis.  All  other 
things  but  our  disorder  and  its  cure  seem  less  than  nothing  and 
vanity.  It  assumes  a  palpable  form  ;  it  becomes  a  demon,  a 
spectre,  an  incubus  hovering  over  and  oppressing  us :  we  grap-  1 5 
pie  with  it :  it  strikes  its  fangs  into  us,  spreads  its  arms  round 
us,  infects  us  with  its  breath,  glares  upon  us  with  its  hideous 
aspect ;  we  feel  it  take  possession  of  every  fibre  and  of  every 
faculty ;  and  we  are  at  length  so  absorbed  and  fascinated  by  it, 
that  we  cannot  divert  our  reflections  from  it  for  an  instant,  for  20 
all  other  things  but  pain  (and  that  which  we  suffer  most  acutely), 
appear  to  have  lost  their  pith  and  power  to  interest.  They  are 
turned  to  dust  and  stubble.  This  is  the  reason  of  the  fine 
resolutions  we  sometimes  form  in  such  cases,  and  of  the  vast 
superiority  of  the  sick  bed  to  the  pomps  and  thrones  of  the  25 
world.  We  easily  renounce  wine  when  we  have  nothing  but 
the  taste  of  physic  in  our  mouths :  the  rich  banquet  tempts  us 
not,  when  "  our  very  gorge  rises  "  within  us  :  Love  and  Beauty 
fly  from  a  bed  twisted  into  a  thousand  folds  by  restless  lassitude 
and  tormenting  cares :  the  nerve  of  pleasure  is  killed  by  the  30 
pains  that  shoot  through  the  head  or  rack  the  limbs :  and  indi- 
gestion seizes  you  with  its  leaden  grasp  and  giant  force  (down. 
Ambition !)  —  you  shiver  and  tremble  like  a  leaf  in  a  fit  of  the 
ague.    (Avarice,  let  go  your  palsied  hold  ! )   We  then  are  in  the 


3IO  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

mood,  without  ghostly  advice,  to  betake  ourselves  to  the  life  of 

"  hermit  poor," 

"  In  pensive  place  obscure,  —  " 

and  should  be  glad  to  prevent  the  return  of  a  fever  raging  in 
5  the  blood  by  feeding  on  pulse,  and  slaking  our  thirst  at  the 
limpid  brook.  The  sudden  resolutions,  however,  or  "  vows 
made  in  pain  as  violent  and  void,"  are  generally  of  short  dura- 
tion :  the  excess  and  the  sorrow  for  it  are  alike  selfish ;  and 
those  repentances  which  are  the  most  loud  and  passionate  are 
lo  the  surest  to  end  speedily  in  a  relapse ;  for  both  originate  in 
the  same  cause,  the  being  engrossed  by  the  prevailing  feeling 
(whatever  it  may  be),  and  an  utter  incapacity  to  look  beyond  it. 

"  The  Devil  was  sick,  the  Devil  a  monk  would  be  : 
The  Devil  grew  well,  the  Devil  a  monk  was  he !  " 

15  It  is  amazing  how  little  effect  physical  suffering  or  local  cir- 
cumstances have  upon  the  mind,  except  while  we  are  subject  to 
their  immediate  influence.  While  the  impression  lasts,  they  are 
every  thing :  when  it  is  gone,  they  are  nothing.  We  toss  and 
tumble  about  in  a  sick  bed ;  we  lie  on  our  right  side,  we  then 

20  change  to  the  left ;  we  stretch  ourselves  on  our  backs,  we  turn 
on  our  faces ;  we  wrap  ourselves  up  under  the  clothes  to 
exclude  the  cold,  we  throw  them  off  to  escape  the  heat  and 
suffocation ;  we  grasp  the  pillow  in  agony,  we  fling  ourselves 
out  of  bed,  we  walk  up  and  down  the  room  with  hasty  or  feeble 

25  steps ;  we  return  to  bed ;  we  are  worn  out  with  fatigue  and 
pain,  yet  can  get  no  repose  for  the  one,  nor  intermission  for 
the  other;  we  summon  all  our  patience,  or  give  vent  to  passion 
and  petty  rage :  nothing  avails ;  we  seem  wedded  to  our  dis- 
ease, "  like  life  and  death  in  disproportion  met ;  "  we  make  new 

30  efforts,  try  new  expedients,  but  nothing  appears  to  shake  it  off, 
or  promise  relief  from  our  grim  foe :  it  infixes  its  sharp  sting 
into  us,  or  overpowers  us  by  its  sickly  and  stunning  weight : 
every  moment  is  as  much  as  we  can  bear,  and  yet  there  seems 


THE  SICK  CHAMBER  311 

no  end  of  our  lengthening  tortures ;  we  are  ready  to  faint  with 
exhaustion,  or  work  ourselves  up  to  frenzy :  we  "  trouble  deaf 
Heaven  with  our  bootless  prayers :  "  we  think  our  last  hour 
has  come,  or  peevishly  wish  it  were,  to  put  an  end  to  the 
scene ;  we  ask  questions  as  to  the  origin  of  evil  and  the  ne-  5 
cessity  of  pain ;  we  "  moralise  our  complaints  into  a  thousand 
similes ; "  we  deny  the  use  of  medicine  in  toto,  we  have  a  full 
persuasion  that  all  doctors  are  mad  or  knaves,  that  our  object 
is  to  gain  relief,  and  theirs  (out  of  the  perversity  of  human 
nature,  or  to  seem  wiser  than  we)  to  prevent  it;  we  catechise  10 
the  apothecary,  rail  at  the  nurse,  and  cannot  so  much  as  con- 
ceive the  possibility  that  this  state  of  things  should  not  last 
for  ever ;  we  are  even  angry  at  those  who  would  give  us 
encouragement,  as  if  they  would  make  dupes  or  children  of 
us ;  we  might  seek  a  release  by  poison,  a  halter,  or  the  sword,  1 5 
but  we  have  not  strength  of  mind  enough  —  our  nerves  are 
too  shaken  —  to  attempt  even  this  poor  revenge  —  when  lo  ! 
a  change  comes,  the  spell  falls  off,  and  the  next  moment  we 
forget  all  that  has  happened  to  us.  No  sooner  does  our  dis- 
order turn  its  back  upon  us  than  we  laugh  at  it.  The  state  20 
we  have  been  in,  sounds  like  a  dream,  a  fable  ;  health  is  the 
order  of  the  day,  strength  is  ours  de  jure  and  de  facto ;  and  we 
discard  all  uncalled-for  evidence  to  the  contrary  with  a  smile  of 
contemptuous  incredulity,  just  as  we  throw  our  physic-bottles 
out  of  the  window !  I  see  (as  I  awake  from  a  short,  uneasy  25 
doze)  a  golden  light  shine  through  the  white  window-curtains 
on  the  opposite  wall :  —  is  it  the  dawn  of  a  new  day,  or  the 
departing  light  of  evening .?  I  do  not  well  know,  for  the  opium 
"  they  have  drugged  my  posset  with  "  has  made  strange  havoc 
with  my  brain,  and  I  am  uncertain  whether  time  has  stood  still,  30 
or  advanced,  or  gone  backward.  By  "  puzzling  o'er  the  doubt," 
my  attention  is  drawn  a  little  out  of  myself  to  external  objects ; 
and  I  consider  whether  it  would  not  administer  some  relief  to  my 
monotonous  languor,  if  I  call  up  a  vivid  picture  of  an  evening 


312  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

sky  I  witnessed  a  short  while  before,  the  white  fleecy  clouds, 
the  azure  vault,  the  verdant  fields,  and  balmy  air.  In  vain!  The 
wings  of  fancy  refuse  to  mount  from  my  bed-side.  The  air  with- 
out has  nothing  in  common  with  the  closeness  within  ;  the  clouds 
5  disappear,  the  sky  is  instantly  overcast  and  black.  I  walk  out 
in  this  scene  soon  after  I  recover  ;  and  with  those  favourite  and 
well-known  objects  interposed,  can  no  longer  recall  the  tumbled 
pillow,  the  juleps  or  the  labels,  or  the  unwholesome  dungeon  in 
which  I  was  before  immured.    What  is  contrary  to  our  present 

lo  sensations  or  settled  habits,  amalgamates  indifferently  with  our 
belief  :  the  imagination  rules  over  imaginary  themes  ;  the  senses 
and  custom  have  a  narrower  sway,  and  admit  but  one  guest  at 
a  time.  It  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that  we  dread  physical 
calamities  so  little  beforehand :  we  think  no  more  of  them  the 

IS  moment  after  they  have  happened.  Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind. 
This  will  perhaps  explain  why  all  actual  punishment  has  so  little 
effect ;  it  is  a  state  contrary  to  nature,  alien  to  the  will.  If  it 
does  not  touch  honour  and  conscience  (and  where  these  are  not, 
how  can  it  touch  them  ?)  it  goes  for  nothing ;  and  where  these 

20  are,  it  rather  sears  and  hardens  them.  The  gyves,  the  cell,  the 
meagre  fare,  the  hard  labour  are  abhorrent  to  the  mind  of  the 
culprit  on  whom  they  are  imposed,  who  carries  the  love  of  liberty 
or  indulgence  to  licentiousness  ;  and  who  throws  the  thought  of 
them  behind  him  (the  moment  he  can  evade  the  penalty,)  with 

25  scorn  and  laughter, 

"  Like  Samson  his  green  wythes."  ^ 

So,  in  travelling,  we  often  meet  with  great  fatigue  and  incon- 
venience from  heat  or  cold,  or  other  accidents,  and  resolve  never 
to  go  a  journey  again  ;   but  we  are  ready  to  set  off  on  a  new 

1  The  thoughts  of  a  captive  can  no  more  get  beyond  his  prison-walls  than  his 
limbs,  unless  they  are  busied  in  planning  an  escape  ;  as,  on  the  contrary,  what 
prisoner,  after  effecting  his  escape,  ever  suffered  them  to  return  there,  or  took 
common  precautions  to  prevent  his  own  ?  We  indulge  our  fancy  more  than  we 
consult  our  interest.  The  sense  of  personal  identity  has  almost  as  little  influence 
in  practice  as  it  has  foundation  in  theory. 


THE  SICK  CHAMBER  313 

excursion  to-morrow.  We  remember  the  landscape,  the  change 
of  scene,  the  romantic  expectation,  and  think  no  more  of  the 
heat,  the  noise,  and  dust.  The  body  forgets  its  grievances,  till 
they  recur ;  but  imagination,  passion,  pride,  have  a  longer  mem- 
ory and  quicker  apprehensions.  To  the  first  the  pleasure  or  5 
pain  is  nothing  when  once  over ;  to  the  last  it  is  only  then  that 
they  begin  to  exist.    The  line  in  Metastasio, 

"  The  worst  of  every  evil  is  the  fear," 

is  true  only  when  applied  to  this  latter  sort.  —  It  is  curious  that, 
on  coming  out  of  a  sick-room,  where  one  has  been  pent  some  10 
time,  and  grown  weak  and  nervous,  and  looking  at  Nature  for 
the  first  time,  the  objects  that  present  themselves  have  a  very 
questionable  and  spectral  appearance,  the  people  in  the  street 
resemble  files  crawling  about,  and  seem  scarce  half-alive.    It  is 
we  who  are  just  risen  from  a  torpid  and  unwholesome  state,  15 
and  who  impart  our  imperfect  feelings  of  existence,  health,  and 
motion  to  others.    Or  it  may  be  that  the  violence  and  exertion 
of  the  pain  we  have  gone  through  make  common  everyday 
objects  seem  unreal  and  unsubstantial.     It  is  not  till  we  have 
established  ourselves  in  form  in  the  sitting-room,  wheeled  round  20 
the  arm-chair  to  the  fire  (for  this  makes  part  of  our  re-intro- 
duction to  the  ordinary  modes  of  being  in  all  seasons,)  felt  our 
appetite  return,  and  taken  up  a  book,  that  we  can  be  con- 
sidered as  at  all  restored  to  ourselves.     And  even  then  our 
first  sensations  are  rather  empirical  than  positive,  as  after  sleep  25 
we  stretch  out  our  hands  to  know  whether  we  are  awake.   This 
is  the  time  for  reading.    Books  are  then  indeed  "  a  world,  both 
pure  and  good,"  into  which  we  enter  with  all  our  hearts,  after 
our  revival  from  illness  and  respite  from  the  tomb,  as  with  the 
freshness  and  novelty  of  youth.  They  are  not  merely  acceptable  30 
as  without  too  much  exertion  they  pass  the  time  and  relieve 
ennui;   but  from  a  certain  suspension  and  deadening  of  the 
passions,  and  abstraction  from  worldly  pursuits,  they  may  be 


314  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

said  to  bring  back  and  be  friendly  to  the  guileless  and  enthusi- 
astic tone  of  feeling  with  which  we  formerly  read  them.  Sick- 
ness has  weaned  us  pro  tempore  from  contest  and  cabal ;  and 
we  are  fain  to  be  docile  and  children  again.  All  strong  changes 
5  in  our  present  pursuits  throw  us  back  upon  the  past.  This  is 
the  shortest  and  most  complete  emancipation  from  our  late  dis- 
comfiture. We  wonder  that  any  one  who  has  read  The  History 
of  a  Foundling  should  labour  under  an  indigestion,  nor  do  we 
comprehend  how  a  perusal  of  the  Faery  Queen  should  not  ensure 

10  the  true  believer  an  uninterrupted  succession  of  halcyon  days. 
Present  objects  bear  a  retrospective  meaning,  and  point  to  "  a 
foregone  conclusion."  Returning  back  to  life  with  half -strung 
nerves  and  shattered  strength,  we  seem  as  when  we  first  entered 
it  with  uncertain  purposes  and  faltering  aims.   The  machine  has 

1 5  received  a  shock,  and  it  moves  on  more  tremulously  than  before, 
and  not  all  at  once  in  the  beaten  track.  Startled  at  the  approach 
of  death,  we  are  willing  to  get  as  far  from  it  as  we  can  by 
making  a  proxy  of  our  former  selves ;  and  finding  the  precarious 
tenure  by  which  we  hold  existence,  and  its  last  sands  running 

2o  out,  we  gather  up  and  make  the  most  of  the  fragments  that 
memory  has  stored  up  for  us.  Every  thing  is  seen  through  a 
medium  of  reflection  and  contrast.  We  hear  the  sound  of  merry 
voices  in  the  street ;  and  this  carries  us  back  to  the  recollections 
of  some  country-town  or  village-group  — 

25  "  We  see  the  children  sporting  on  the  shore, 

And  hear  the  mighty  waters  roaring  evermore." 

A  cricket  chirps  on  the  hearth,  and  wc  are  reminded  of  Christ- 
mas gambols  long  ago.  The  very  cries  in  the  street  seem  to  be 
of  a  former  date ;  and  the  dry  toast  eats  very  much  as  it  did 
30  —  twenty  years  ago.  A  rose  smells  doubly  sweet,  after  being 
stifled  with  tinctures  and  essences ;  and  we  enjoy  the  idea  of 
a  journey  and  an  inn  the  more  for  having  been  bed-rid.  But 
a  book  is  the  secret  and  sure  charm  to  bring  all  these  implied 


THE  SICK  CHAMBER  315 

associations  to  a  focus.  I  should  prefer  an  old  one,  Mr.  ]-amb"s 
favourite,  the  Journey  to  Lisbon  ;  or  the  Decameron,  if  I  could 
get  it ;  but  if  a  new  one,  let  it  be  Paul  Clifford.  That  book 
has  the  singular  advantage  of  being  written  by  a  gentleman, 
and  not  about  his  own  class.  The  characters  he  commemorates  5 
are  every  moment  at  fault  between  life  and  death,  hunger  and 
2.  forced  loan  on  the  public  ;  and  therefore  the  interest  they  take 
in  themselves,  and  which  we  take  in  them,  has  no  cant  or  affec- 
tation in  it,  but  is  "  lively,  audible,  and  full  of  vent."  A  set  of 
well-dressed  gentlemen,  picking  their  teeth  with  a  graceful  air  10 
after  dinner,  and  endeavouring  to  keep  their  cravats  from  the 
slightest  discomposure,  and  saying  the  most  insipid  things  in 
the  most  insipid  manner,  do  not  make  a  scene.  Well,  then,  I 
have  got  the  new  paraphrase  on  the  Beggar's  Opei-a,  am  fairly 
embarked  in  it ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  first  volume,  where  I  am  1 5 
galloping  across  the  heath  with  the  three  highwaymen,  while  the 
moon  is  shining  full  upon  them,  feel  my  nerves  so  braced, 
and  my  spirits  so  exhilarated,  that,  to  -say  truth,  I  am  scarce 
sorry  for  the  occasion  that  has  thrown  me  upon  the  work  and 
the  author  —  have  quite  forgot  my  Sick  Room  and  am  more  20 
than  half  ready  to  recant  the  doctrine  that  a  Free- Admission  to 

the  theatre  is 

"The  true  pathos  and  sublime 

Of  human  life:" 


for  I  feel  as  I  read  that  if  the  stage  shows  us  the  masks  of  25 
men  and  the  pageant  of  the  world,  books  let  us  into  their  souls 
and  lay  open  to  us  the  secrets  of  our  own.    They  are  the  first 
and  last,  the  most  home-felt,  the  most  heart-felt  of  all   our 
enjoyments. 


NOTES 


The  only  complete  edition  of  Hazlitt's  writings  is  by  Waller  and  Glover  in 
thirteen  volumes,  including  one  volume  which  contains  a  full  index  to  subjects 
and  quotations.  References  in  these  notes  to  "  Works  "  are  always  to  this  edition. 
The  instances  of  my  indebtedness  to  this  edition  are  too  numerous  to  mention. 
Hazlitt's  habit  of  quoting  from  memory  has  baffled  every  editor  who  has  tried 
to  discover  the  sources  of  the  quotations.  Though  scholars  have  been  able  to 
discover  most  of  those  used  in  this  volume,  a  few  have  eluded  the  most  careful 
search  of  many  editors. 

HAMLET 

The  only  criticism  of  Hamlet  by  Hazlitt  is  the  review  of  Kean's  play- 
ing, which  appeared  in  the  Moniing  Chronicle,  March  14,  1814.  The 
present  issue  is  printed  from  the  first  edition  of  the  "  Characters  of 
Shakespear"  (1817),  which  is  a  reprint,  usually  with  small  changes,  of 
the  theatrical  reviews  appearing  immediately  after  the  performance 
of  the  plays. 

In  his  preface  to  the  published  volume,  "Characters  of  Shakespear," 
liazlitt  says  :  "  The  only  work  which  seemed  to  supersede  the  necessity 
of  an  attempt  like  the  present  was  Schlegel's  very  admirable  '  Lectures 
on  the  Drama,'  which  give  by  far  the  best  account  of  the  plays  of  Shak- 
spere  that  has  hitherto  appeared.  The  only  circumstances  in  which 
it  was  thought  not  impossible  to  improve  on  the  manner  in  which  the 
German  critic  has  executed  this  part  of  his  design,  were  in  avoiding  an 
appearance  of  mysticism  in  his  style,  not  very  attractive  to  the  English 
reader,  and  in  bringing  illustrations  from  particular  passages  of  the  plays 
themselves,  of  which  Schlegel's  work,  from  the  extcnsiveness  of  his  plan, 
did  not  admit.  We  will  at  the  same  time  confess,  that  some  little  jeal- 
ousy of  the  character  of  the  national  understanding  was  not  without  its 
share  in  producing  the  following  undertaking,  for  'we  were  piqued' 
that  it  should  be  reserved  for  a  foreign  critic  to  give  '  reasons  for  the 
faith  which  we  English  have  in  Shakespear.'"  Then  Hazlitt  printed  a 
long  passage  from  Schlegel  and  contrasted  his  estimate  of  Shakspere 
with  that  of  Samuel  Johnson,  much  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  latter. 

3'7 


3l8  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

1  3  that  famous  soliloquy  :   III,  i,  56. 
1  4  the  advice  to  the  players  :  III,  ii. 
14  "  this  goodly  frame  "  :   II,  ii,  310. 
1  7  "  man  delighted  not"  :   II,  ii,  321. 
1  y  grave-diggers :  V,  i. 

1  23  "  too  much  i'  th'  sun  "  :   I,  ii,  67. 

2  2""  the  pangs  of  despised  love  "  :   III,  i,  72. 

3  10  "  we  have  that  within  "  :  I,  ii,  85. 
3  27  where  he  kills  Polonius  :  III,  iv. 

3  28  alters  the  letters  :   IV,  vi;  V,  ii.  51. 

3  33  refuses  to  kill :   III,  iv ;  also  '"  He  kneels  and  prays." 

4  21  "'How  all  occasions"  :  IV.  iv,  32. 

5  33  the  Whole  Duty  of  Man  was  a  treatise  published  in  1659.  The 
author  is  unknown.  It  was  very  popular,  one  impression  of  17 17 
appearing  with  the  alluring  title  "  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man,  consider'd 
under  its  three  principal  and  general  divisions,  namely  The  Duties  we 
owe  to  God,  Ourselves  and  Neighbors,  Faithfully  extracted  from  that 
excellent  book  so  entitled  and  published  for  the  benefit  of  the  poorer 
sort."  The  book  has  been  attributed  to  Robert  Nelson,  Esq.,  to  Robert 
Norton,  Henry  Hammond,  and  others.  It  will  be  remembered  as  one  of 
that  interesting  collection  of  books  of  Lydia  Languish,  in  Sheridan's 
"'  Rivals,"  I,  2. 

5  33  Academy  of  Compliments  or  the  Whole  Art  of  Courtship,  being 
the  nearest  and  most  exact  way  of  wooing  a  Maid  or  Widow,  by  the 
way  of  Dialogue  or  Complimental  Expressions.  London  (no  date). 
There  were  editions  in  1640,  1650. 

6  21  "'I  loved  Ophelia  "  :  V,  i,  292. 

6  26  "'  Sweets  to  the  sweet  "  :  V,  i,  266. 

7  13  his  advice  to  Laertes  :   I,  iii. 
7  14  advice  to  the  King  :   II,  ii. 

7  28  Kemble:  John  Philip  Kemble  (1757-1823),  the  celebrated  EngHsh 
tragedian,  son  of  Roger  Kemble,  brother  of  Charles  Kemble  and  of 
Mrs.  Sarah  Kemble  Siddons.  He  made  his  debut  as  Hamlet  at  Drury 
Lane  in  1783  and  retired  as  Coriolanus,  June  23,  1817.  As  manager  of 
Drury  Lane  and  later  of  Covent  Garden  he  won  a  reputation,  particu- 
larly at  the  opening  of  the  new  Covent  Garden  Theater  when  the  "old 
price  riots  "  occurred.  Kemble  was  popular  as  Hamlet.  Cato.  and  P>rutus, 
but  especially  as  Coriolanus.  Hazlitt  described  with  feeling  and  with 
regret  Kemble's  retirement  from  the  stage  in  the  Times  for  June  25, 
1817.    For  many  criticisms  of  his  acting,  see  Works,  Vol.  VIII. 

7  note     "There  is  a  willow  "  :   IV,  vii.  167. 


NOTES  319 

8G  Kean :  Edmund  Kean  (1787-1833),  a  celebrated  English  actor. 
He  first  appeared  at  the  Haymarket  Theater  in  1806,  later  at  Drury 
Lane,  where  he  scored  a  phenomenal  success  as  Shylock.  His  initial 
appearance  in  New  York  was  on  November  29,  1820.  Kean  was  one 
of  the  objects  of  Hazlitt's  sincere  and  constant  admiration.  The  parts 
which  he  played  with  exceptional  brilliancy,  such  as  Shylock,  Lear, 
Hamlet,  Othello,  la.go,  Macbeth,  Romeo,  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  have 
been  described  vividly  and  sympathetically  by  Hazlitt  in  "View  of  the 
English  Stage,"  Works,  VIII,  179  ff. 

ON  THE  PERIODICAL  ESSAYISTS 

This  was  the  fifth  lecture  of  the  series  at  the  Surrey  Institution.  It 
was  published  in  1819.    See  Introduction,  p.  xxxi. 

9  "  proper  study  of  mankind"  :    Pope,  "  Essay  on  Man,"  Epistle  II,  1.  2. 

9  7  "  comes  home  to  the  business  "  :  "  I  do  not  publish  my  Essays,  which 
of  all  my  other  works  have  been  most  current ;  for  that,  as  it  seems, 
they  come  home  to  men's  business  and  bosoms  "  (from  the  "  Dedica- 
tion to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,"  by  P^ancis  Bacon). 

9  7  Quicquid  agunt:  Juvenal,  "Satires,"  1,85-86.  This  was  also  the 
motto  of  the  first  forty  numbers  of  the  ""  Tatler."  It  was  translated 
thus  by  Hazlitt :  "  Whatever  things  are  doing  shall  germ  the  motley 
subject  of  my  page." 

9  16  "'  holds  the  mirror  up  to  nature  "  :  "  Hamlet,"  III,  ii,  24. 

9  23  "The  act  and  practic  part  of  life"  :  "  Henry  V,"  I,  i,  51. 

10  0  "the  web  of  our  life":  "All's  Well,"  IV,  iii,  79.  This  was  a 
favorite  passage  with  Hazlitt  and  was  often  used  by  him. 

10  1(5  "Quid  sit":  Horace,  "Epistles,"  I,  ii,  3,  4-  "It  tells  what  is 
honourable,  what  is  loose,  what  is  expedient,  what  not,  more  amply  and 
better  than  Chrysippus  and  Grantor." 

10  22  Montaigne  (Michael  de  Montaigne,  1 533-1 59-)  ^  His  "  Essais  " 
were  published  in  1 580-1 588.  Charles  Cotton's  translation  (mentioned 
on  page  13)  was  published  in  three  volumes  in  1685  and  has  been  often 
reprinted,  once  by  W.  C.  Hazlitt  (1902).  Florio's  translation  (published 
in  1601)  was  known  to  Shakspere  and  to  Bacon. 

11  31  "  pour  out  all  as  plain  "  :  Pope,  "  Imitation  of  the  Second  Book 

of  the  Satires  of  Horace,"  Sat.  I,  51-52- 

"  I  love  to  pour  out  all  myself,  as  plain 
As  downright  Shippen,  or  as  old  Montaigne." 

11  32  Shippen  (1673-1743)  :  William  Shippen  was  an  outspoken  poli- 
tician and  a  Jacobite,  Wlio  was  sent  to  the  Tower  in  171S.    He  used  to 


320  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

say  of  himself  and  Sir  Robert  Walpole :  "  Robin  and  I  are  two  honest 
men,  though  he  is  for  King  George  and  I  for  King  James."  Of  him, 
Hazlitt  in  his  "British  Senate"  writes:  "He  was  one  of  the  most  vehe- 
ment and  vigorous  opposers  of  the  measures  of  government  through 
the  whole  of  this  reign.  .  .  .  But  he  was  a  man  of  great  firmness  and 
independence  of  mind." 

12  2:\  "  Pereant  isti  "  :  "  confound  the  fellows  who  have  said  our  good 
things  before  us"  (IlazHtt). 

12  note  Mandevillc:  Bernard  de  Mandeville  (i 670-1 733);  in  1705  he 
published  a  rough  poem  in  octosyllabics,  entitled  "  The  Grumbling 
Hive."  This  was  reprinted  in  17 14  together  with  a  long  commentary  in 
prose,  with  the  title  "  The  Fable  of  the  Bees,  or  Private  Vices,  Pubhc 
Benefits." 

13  3  Lord  Halifax:  George  Savile,  Marquis  of  Halifax  (1633-1695); 
he  has  been  sometimes  called  the  founder  of  the  political  pamphlet. 
His  style  was  simple  and  full  of  wit.  His  collected  pamphlets  appeared 
in  1700  and  are  interesting. 

13  7  Cowley:  Abraham  Cowley  (161S-1667),  a  royalist  poet  and  one 
of  the  first  writers  of  the  English  essay. 

13  8  Sir  William  Temple  (1628-1699):  distinguished  statesman  and 
prose  writer.    He  was  for  a  time  a  patron  of  Swift. 

13  9  Lord  Shaftesbury:  Antony  Ashley  Cooper,  third  Earl  of  Shaftes- 
bury (1671-1713)  ;  he  published  a  book  which  became  very  famous  and 
had  much  influence  on  the  thought  of  the  eighteenth  century,  "  Char- 
acteristics of  Men,  Manners,  Opinions,  Times  "  ( 1 7 1 1 ).  He  was  eminent 
as  a  philosophical  essayist.  He  was  opposed  to  Hobbes  and  maintained 
the  existence  of  a  moral  sense. 

13  note  "Nam  quodcunque  "  &c.  :   Lucretius,  IH,  752. 

14  (I  the  Tatler:  this  famous  paper,  instituted  by  Richard  Steele,  con- 
tinued from  April  12,  1709,  to  January  2,  17 11.  In  all  there  were  271 
numl)ers,  of  which  Steele  contributed  iSS.  See  the  editions  of  Steele 
and  Addison  in  the  Athenaeum  Press  Series.  See  also  the  edition  of 
the  "Tatler"  by  G.  A.  Aitken  (1889). 

14  7  Spectator  continued  from  March  i,  1711,  to  December  6,  17 12, 
and  from  June  tS,  1714,  to  December  20,  1714.  The  larger  number  of 
papers  were  written  by  Addison. 

14  12  "the  perfect  spy  0'  th'  time"  :   "  Macbeth,"  HI,  i,  129. 

14  18  The  first  of  these  papers  :  a  large  part  of  this  passage  had 
appeared  in  the  JixaDiincr  (March  5,  181 5).  It  was  then  reprinted 
in  "The  Round  Table"  (1S17)  and  was  later  included  in  the  essay 
before  us. 


NOTES  321 

14  2()  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  Esq.:  in  starting  the  "Tatlcr,"  Steele  assumed 
the  name  of  the  astrologer,  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  rendered  famous  by  Swift, 
who  professed  that  Bickerstaff  was  a  true  astrologer,  disgusted  at  the 
lies  told  by  impostors.    See  Swift's  "  Predictions  for  the  Year,  170S." 

14  32  Temple  Bar :  the  famous  gateway  before  the  Temple  in  Lon- 
don, which  formerly  divided  Fleet  Street  from  the  Strand. 

15  9  he  dwells  with  a  secret  satisfaction  :  "  Tatler,"  No.  107,  Decem- 
ber 14,  1709. 

15  14  The  club  at  the  Trumpet:  "Tatler,"  No.  132,  where  the  club 
is  described. 

The  Trumpet  stood  about  half-way  up  Shire  Lane,  between  Temple  Bar  and 
Carey  Street,  at  the  widest  and  best  part  of  the  lane,  and  remained  almost  entirely 
in  its  original  state  until  demolished  to  make  way  for  the  new  Law  Courts.  It  had 
the  old  sign  of  the  Trumpet  to  the  last,  as  it  figured  in  Limbard's  "  Mirror  "  in  a 
picture  where  it  is  placed  side  by  side  with  a  view  of  the  house  in  F"ulwood"s 
Rents  where  papers  for  the  "  Spectator  "  were  taken  in. 

Aitken's  edition  of  "  Tatler,"  III,  98-99. 

15  Ki  cavalcade  of  the  justice,  &c. :  "  Tatler,"  No.  86,  October  26, 
1709. 

15  20  the  upholsterer  and  his  companions  :  "  Tatler,"  Nos.  i  55,  160,  17S. 
The  original  of  this  political  upholsterer  was  said  to  have  been  Edward 
Arne  of  Covent  Garden. 

15  21  Green  Park :  a  large  park  in  London  between  Buckingham 
Palace  and  Piccadilly.  It  was  especially  popular  in  the  eighteenth 
century. 

16  28  burlesque  copy  of  verses  :  "Tatler,"  No.  238,  October  16,  1710. 
Swift  writes  (Journal,  October  10,  1710)  :  "  I  am  now  writing  my  poet- 
ical description  of  a  '  Shower  in  London '  and  will  send  it  to  the 
'  Tatler.' " 

15  31  the  Grecian  coffee-house :  probably  the  most  ancient  of  the 
coffee-houses.  It  goes  back  to  about  1652.  It  stood  in  Devereux  Court 
and  had  its  name  from  a  Oreek,  Constantine,  who  kept  it. 

In  the  "Tatler"  announcements  of  all  accounts  of  learning  were  "to 
be  under  the  title  of  the  Grecian";  see  also  "Tatler,"  No.  6.  "While 
other  parts  of  the  town  are  amused  with  the  present  actions  [of  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough]  we  generally  spend  the  evening  at  this  table 
[the  Grecian]  in  inquiry  into  antiquity,  and  think  anything  new  which 
gives  us  new  knowledge."  In  Dr.  King's  "  Anecdotes  "  there  is  a  story 
of  two  gentlemen  friends  who  disputed  there  "  about  the  account  of  a 
Greek  word  to  such  a  length  that  they  went  out  into  Devereux  Court 
and  drew  swords,  when  one  of  them  was  killed  on  the  spot." 


322  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

15  32  Wills' :  the  coffee-house  on  the  north  side  of  Russell  Street, 
Covent  Garden,  at  the  end  of  Bow  Street.  It  was  named  for  its  first 
proprietor,  Wilham  Urwin.  In  the  seventeenth  century  it  became  the 
chief  resort  of  the  poets  and  came  to  be  known  as  the  zoits'  coffee- 
house.   See  Pepys's  "Diary,"  February,  1663-1664. 

16  7  Mr.  Lilly:  for  "Spectator,"  No.  138,  August  8,  171 1,  Steele 
wrote  the  following  advertisement :  "  The  exercise  of  the  snuff-box  ac- 
cording to  the  most  fashionable  airs  and  notions,  in  opposition  to  the 
exercise  of  the  fan,  will  be  taught  with  the  best  plain  or  perfumed  snuff 
at  Charles  Lillie's,  perfumer,  at  the  Corner  of  Beaufort  Buildings  in  the 
Strand." 

16  8  Betterton  :  Thomas  Betterton  (1635-1710),  famous  as  actor  and 
theater  manager.  He  is  often  mentioned  in  the  "  Tatler,"  e.g.  Nos.  i, 
71,  167.    See  Aitken's  edition,  II,  163-164. 

16  8  Mrs.  Oldfield :  Anne  Oldfield  (1683-1730),  a  celebrated  actress. 
According  to  tradition,  Farquhar,  the  dramatist,  heard  her  in  the  Mitre 
Tavern  reciting  passages  from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  plays.  He  spoke 
favorably  of  her  to  Vanbrugh,  who  in  turn  presented  her  to  Christopher 
Rich,  manager  of  Drury  Lane. 

16  9  Will  Estcourt :  Richard  Estcourt  {1668-1712),  actor  and  dramatist. 
See  "  Spectator,"  No.  468,  August  27,  1712. 

16  10  Tom  Durfey  :  Thomas  D'Urfey  (1653-17 23),  dramatist  and  song 
writer,  often  referred  to  in  the  "Tatler,"  e.g.  Nos.  i,  11,  43,  &c.  He 
wrote  "The  Modern  Prophets,"  which  was  produced  in  1709.  At  his 
death  he  left  his  watch  and  chain  to  Steele,  who  wore  it  at  the  funeral. 

16  11  Duke  of  Marlborough :  John  Churchill,  first  Duke  of  Marlborough 
(1650-1722),  the  distinguished  general  in  the  War  of  the  Spanish  Suc- 
cession. Thackeray  has  given  a  vivid,  perhaps  not  a  fair,  picture  of  him 
in  "  Henry  Esmond." 

16  11  Marshal  Turenne  (1611-1675):  created  Marshal-General  of  the 
armies  of  France  in  1660;  he  won  many  brilliant  victories. 

16  12  Vanbrugh:  Sir  John  Vanbrugh  (1664  or  1666-1726),  a  promi- 
nent dramatist  and  architect  of  the  time  of  the  Restoration.  One  of  his 
most  famous  buildings  was  Blenheim  near  Oxford,  given  by  the  Crown 
to  the  Duke  of  Marlborough. 

16  27  "The  first  sprightly  runnings"  :  Dryden,  "  Aurengzebe,"  IV,  i : 

And  from  the  dregs  of  life  think  to  receive, 
What  the  first  sprightly  running  could  not  give. 

17  IS  amiable  weaknesses:  "  Spectator,"  No.  100,  June  25,  1711. 
17  IK  hospitality:  "Spectator,"  Nos.  106,  107,  July  2,  3,  1711. 


NOTES  323 

17  21  passion  for  his  fair  enemy  :  "  Spectator,"  No.  1 13,  July  10,  171 1. 
17  25  the  havoc  he  makes  among  the  game:    "Spectator,"  No.   116, 
July  13,   171 1. 

17  2(5  speech  from  the  bench  :  "  Spectator,"  No.  122,  July  20,  17 11. 

17  28  put  up  as  a  sign-post :  ibid. 

17  30  baggage  of  a  gipsy  :  "  Spectator,"  No.  120,  July  30,  171 1. 

17  32  witchcraft:  "Spectator,"  No.  117,  July  14,  171 1. 

17  33  account  of  the  family  pictures:  "Spectator,"  No.  log,  July  5,  17 11. 

17  34  to  his  falling  asleep  at  church:  "Spectator,"  No.  112,  July  9, 
17 1 1.  John  Williams  should  be  John  Matthews.  "  I  was  yesterday  very 
much  surprised  to  hear  my  old  Friend  in  the  midst  of  the  Service 
calling  out  to  one  John  Matthews  to  mind  what  he  was  about  and  not 
disturb  the  Congregation." 

18  12  Will.  Wimble:  "Spectator,"  Nos.  108,  119,  126,  131. 

18  2  Will.  Honeycomb:  "  Spectator,"  Nos.  105,  131,  151,  156. 

18  21  the  Court  of  Honour:  "  Tatler,"  No.  250,  November  13,  1710. 

18  22  Personification  of  Musiccil  Instruments  :  "  Spectator,"  Nos.  1 53, 

157- 
18  24  the  family  of  an  old  college  acquaintance:  "Tatler,"  No.  95. 

18  29  Guy  of  Warwick :  an  English  metrical  romance,  perhaps  of 
Saxon  origin,  known  to  have  existed  in  French  as  early  as  the  thirteenth 
century. 

18  29  Seven  Champions :  a  fantastic  narrative  of  the  seven  saints  of 
.seven  countries — St.  George  for  England,  St.  Denis  for  France,  St.  James 
for  Spain,  St.  Anthony  for  Italy,  St.  Andrew  for  Scotland,  St.  Patrick 
for  Ireland,  St.  David  for  Wales.  See  W.  H.  Schofield,  "  English 
Literature  from  the  Norman  Conquest  to  Chaucer,"  p.  31S. 

18  31  account  of  the  two  sisters  :  "  Tatler,"  No.  104.  December  7,  1709. 

18  33  that  of  the  married  lady  :  "  Tatler,"  No.  82,  October  17,  1709. 

19  7  the  lover  and  his  mistress:  "Tatler,"  No.  94,  November  14,  1709. 
19  9  the  story  of  Mr.  Eustace  :  "  Tatler,"  No.  172,  May  15,  17 10. 

19  10  the  fine  dream  :  "  Tatler,"  No.  117,  January  6,  17 10. 

19  20  Westminster  Abbey:  "  Spectator,"  No.  26,  March  30.  17 10. 

19  20  Royal  Exchange :  "  Spectator,"  No.  69,  May  19,  1710. 

19  27  Cartoons  of  Raphael :  "  Spectator,"  No.  226,  November  19,  171 1. 
The  "  cartoons  "  were  prepared  by  Raphael  for  the  tapestries  of  the 
Sistine  Chapel  at  Rome.  They  are  now  in  the  Kensington  Museum, 
London. 

19  28  Mr.  Fuseli:  Henry  Fuseli  (1741-1825),  Swiss-English  painter 
and  art  critic.  He  established  himself  in  England  in  1779,  and  in  1799 
was  elected  professor  of  painting  in  the  Royal  .\cadcmy. 


324  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

20  5  original  copy  of  the  quarto  edition  of  the  Tatler:  the  "Tatler"  was 
reissued  in  8vo,  and  in  i2mo  in  1710-171 1. 

20  8  Sir  Isaac  Newton  (1642-1727):  the  greatest  of  natural  philos- 
ophers. 

20  10  Herald's  College  :  College  of  Arms,  an  ancient  royal  corporation 
instituted  by  Richard  III  in  1483.  "  IJehind  Little  Knight- Rider  Street, 
to  the  east  of  Doctors'  Commons,  is  the  Herald's  College "  (Leigh 
Hunt,  "  The  Town,"  chap.  ii.  This  book  contains  an  interesting 
account  of  the  place). 

20  12  The  Guardian:  continued  from  March  12,  1713,  to  October  i, 
17 13.    Of  the  176  numbers  Steele  wrote  82  and  Addison  53. 

20  1()  the  Rambler:  a  series  of  papers  in  imitation  of  the  "Spec- 
tator," appearing  every  Tuesday  and  Saturday  from  March  20,  1750,  to 
March  14,  1752.  All  the  papers  except  five  were  written  by  Samuel 
Johnson. 

22  17  "The  elephant"  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  IV,  345. 

23  10  "If  he  were  to  write  a  fable":  "lioswell"  (edited  by  Hill),  H,  231. 

24  7  Rasselas  (1759)  :  Johnson's  most  popular  work.  It  is  the  story 
of  the  wanderings  of  the  Prince  of  Abyssinia  in  search  of  happiness. 

24  12  patronised  Lauder  :  "  Boswell,"  II,  228-231  : 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Douglas,  having,  with  uncommon  acutencss,  clearly  detected 
a  gross  forger}'  and  imposition  upon  the  public  by  William  Lauder,  a  Scotch 
schoolmaster,  who  had  with  equal  impudence  and  ingenuity  represented  Milton 
as  a  plagiary  from  certain  modem  Latin  poets,  Johnson,  who  had  been  so  far 
imposed  upon  as  to  furnish  a  Preface  and  a  Postscript  to  his  work,  now  dictated 
a  letter  for  Lauder,  addressed  to  Dr.  Douglas,  acknowledging  his  fraud  in  terms 
of  suitable  contrition.  Lauder  afterwards  went  to  the  Barbadoes,  where  he  died 
very  miserably  about  the  year  1771. 

24  20  "  the  king  of  good  fellows  "  : 

There's  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  yon  glen 

He  's  the  King  of  gude  fellows  and  wale  [pick]  of  auld  men. 

Burns,  ''Auld  Rob  ]\Iorris,"  1.  2 

24  28  "the  Ebro's  temper":  no  one  seems  to  understand  where  Hazlitt 
secured  this  expression.  Mr.  Gollancz,  in  his  edition  of  Ilazlitt's  "  Wit 
and  Humour,"  asks  the  question  whether  this  may  be  a  very  inaccurate 
misquoting  of  the  line  in  "  Othello,"  V,  ii,  252  : 

It  is  a  sword  of  .^pain,  the  icc-lirook's  temper. 

25  1   "  Does  he  wmd  into  a  subject  "  :   "  i)o.swell,"  II,  260. 
25  ;'.  "  If  that  fellow  "  :   IJurke.    Ibid.  11,  450. 

25  I)  Topham  Beauclerc  and  Langton  :   ibid.  I,  250. 


NOTES  325 

25  20  Now  I  think  I  am  a  good-humoured  fellow  :  ibid.  II,  362. 

25  22  his  quitting  the  society  of  Garrick  :   ibid.  I,  201. 

25  23  dining  with  Wilkes  :  ibid.  Ill,  64. 

25  24  sitting  with  the  young  ladies  :  ibid.  II,  120. 

25  27  his  carrying  the  unfortunate  victim :  vSergcant  Talfourd,  in  his 
account  of  the  lectures  by  llazlitt,  wrote  : 

The  comparative  insensibility  of  the  bulk  of  his  audience  to  his  finest  passages 
sometimes  provoked  him  to  awaken  their  attention  by  points  which  broke  the 
train  of  his  discourse,  after  which  he  could  make  himself  amends  by  some  abrupt 
paradox  which  might  set  their  prejudices  on  edge,  and  make  them  fancy  they 
were  shocked.  .  .  .  lie  once  had  an  edifying  advantage  over  them.  He  was 
enumerating  the  humanities  which  endeared  Dr.  Johnson  to  his  mind,  and,  at 
the  close  of  an  agreeable  catalogue,  mentioned,  as  last  and  noblest,  "  his  carrying 
the  poor  victim  of  disease  and  dissipation  on  his  back  through  Fleet  Street,"  at 
which  a  titter  arose  from  some,  who  were  struck  by  the  picture  as  ludicrous,  and 
a  murmur  from  others,  who  deemed  the  allusion  unfit  for  ears  polite.  He  paused 
for  an  instant,  and  then  added  in  his  steadiest  and  most  impressive  manner,  "  an 
act  which  realizes  the  parable  of  the  Good  Samaritan,"  at  which  his  moral  and 
delicate  hearers  shrank  rebuked  into  deep  silence. 

"  Literary  Remains  of  William  Ihizlitt,"  pp.  cxxviii-c.xxix 

26  7  "where  they  in  trembling  hope  repose":  Gray's  "Elegy,  The 
Epitaph." 

26  13  The  Adventurer:  November  7,  1752,  to  March  9,  1754,  by  John 
Ilawkesworth  (1715-1773)- 

26  Ki  The  World  :  January  4,  1752.  to  March  9,  1754,  by  Edward  Moore 
(1712-1757)  in  collaboration  with  Lyttleton,  Chesterfield,  and  Horace 
Walpole. 

26  17  Connoisseur:  January  31,  1754,  to  September  30,  1756;  begun 
by  George  Cohnan  and  IJonnell  Thornton.  It  contained  William  fow- 
per's  first  poetry.  The  statement,  "  in  the  last  of  these  there  is  one  good 
idea,"  refers  to  a  paper  by  Moore  in  the  Jl'or/i/,  No.  176. 

26  23  Citizen  of  the  World  (1762):  the  title  given  to  a  collection  of 
papers  first  published  as  "Chinese  Letters." 

26  24  "go  about  to  cozen  reputation":  "Merchant  of  Venice,"  II, 

''■''■  for  who  shall  go  about 

To  cozen  fortune  and  be  honourable 
Without  the  stamp  of  merit  ? 

26  27  Persian  Letters  (1735)  :  "  Letters  from  a  Persian  in  England  to 
his  friend  at  Ispahan."  by  Lord  Lyttleton  (i 709-1773). 

27  4  "The  bonzes  and  priests"  :   "  Citizen  of  the  World,"  Letter  X. 
27  21  We  are  positive  when  we  say:  ibid.  Letter  V. 

27  25  Beau  Tibbs :  ibid.  Letters  XXIX,  LIV,  LV,  LXXI. 


326  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

27  29  Lounger:  Edinburgh,  January  23,  1779,  ^°  ^^y  27,  1780. 
27  30  Mirror:  Edi)ibiirgh,  February  5,  1785,  to  January  6,  1786.    Henry 
Mackenzie  (i  745-1831)  was  the  chief  contributor  to  both. 
27  32  La  Roche  :   in  the  Mirror,  Nos.  42,  43,  44. 

27  33  Le  Fevre  :   Le  Fever  in  Sterne's  '"  Tristram  Shandy,"  VI,  6. 

28  1-4  Man  of  the  World  (1773),  Julia  de  Roubigne  (1777),  Man  of  Feel- 
ing (1771) :  all  by  Henry  Mackenzie. 

28  4  Rosamond  Gray:  romance  by  Charles  Lamb  in  1798. 

CHARACTER  OF  MR.  BURKE 

This  essay  appeared  originally  as  a  part  of  the  paper,  "  Coleridge's 
Literary  Life,"  EJi)iburgh  Review,  XXVHL  503,  August,  1817.  It  ap- 
peared on  the  fifth  of  the  following  October  in  the  Champion  under 
the  title  "Character  of  Mr.  Burke."  In  1819  it  was  published  in  the 
volume,  "  Political  Essays,  with  Sketches  of  Public  Characters."  The 
text  of  18 1 9  is  here  reprinted. 

Edmund  Burke  (1729-1797):  the  celebrated  English  orator  and  states- 
man. Hazlitt's  relation  to  Burke  is  interesting  as  well  as  very  char- 
acteristic. ^Yhen  he  was  eighteen  years  of  age  (1796),  he  found  on 
one  of  his  rambles  a  copy  of  St.  Jatnes''s  Chivnicle,  which  contained  a 
long  extract  from  Burke's  famous  "  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord."  It  was 
the  first  time  that  Hazlitt  had  read  a  line  of  Burke's.  To  find  such 
wonderful  language,  such  splendid  imagination,  appealed  inexpressibly 
to  the  young  reader,  but  at  the  same  time  filled  him  with  despair  that  he 
should  find  so  difficult  the  task  of  conveying  to  others  the  slightest  con- 
ception of  his  meaning.  Later  he  picked  up  in  a  Shrewsbury  book- 
shop Burke's  "Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France"  (1790)  and 
wrote  of  it  with  enthusiasm.  Throughout  his  life  he  retained  a  sincere 
admiration  for  Burke's  writings,  but  roundly  criticized  his  position  on 
public  questions  and  decried  him  as  an  enemy  of  the  people.  See  also 
another  paper.  Works,  III,  325. 

The  views  expressed  in  this  essay  should  be  compared  with  the 
admirable  short  biography  of  Burke  by  Lord  Morley  in  the  English  Men 
of  Letters  Scries. 

32  18  speech  on  the  Begum's  affairs :  on  Burke's  attitude  toward  Indian 
affairs  and  Warren  Hastings,  see  Morley,  chap.  vii. 

32  28  the  word  abdication:  "the  second  claim  of  the  Revolution  So- 
ciety is  a  '  right  of  cashiering  their  governors  for  misconduct.'  Perhaps 
the  apprehensions  our  ancestors  entertained  of  forming  such  a  precedent 
as  that '  of  cashiering  for  misconduct'  was  the  cause  that  the  declaration 


NOTES  327 

of  the  act,  which  implied  the  abdication  of  King  James,  was,  if  it  had 
any  fault,  rather  too  guarded  and  too  circumstantial"  (Burke,  "Reflec- 
tions on  the  Revolution  in  France"  (edited  by  Payne),  II,  31). 

33  3  Salvator  Rosa  (161 5-1673):  a  celebrated  Neapolitan  painter. 
It  is  said  that  he  learned  from  the  Italian  banditti  many  incidents  which 
he  afterwards  painted.  He  is  thought  to  have  been  a  member  of  a  com- 
pany formed  for  the  purpose  of  waylaying  and  killing  Spaniards. 

34  7  "Never  so  sure":  Pope,  "Moral  Essays,"  II,  51.  On  his 
speeches  on  the  American  War,  see  Morley,  chaps,  iv,  viii,  ix. 

ON   POETRY   IN  GENERAL 

This  was  introductory  to  the  series,  "  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets," 
delivered  at  the  Surrey  Institution  and  pubhshed  the  same  year  (181S). 
The  present  text  is  a  reprint  of  the  second  edition  (1819). 

35  24  "'  spreads  its  sweet  leaves  "  :  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  I,  i,  138. 

36  8  "  the  stuff  of  which  "  :  "  Tempest,"  IV,  i,  156. 

36  !)  "  mere  oblivion  "  :  "  As  You  Like  It,"  II,  vii,  165. 

36  14  "  man's  life  is  poor  as  beast's  "  :  "  King  Lear,"  II,  iv,  263. 

36  17  Moliere :  the  stage  name  of  Jean  Baptiste  Poquelin  (1622- 
1673),  the  greatest  writer  of  French  comedies.  "  Le  Bourgeois  Gentil- 
homme"  (1670)  was  one  of  the  most  popular  of  Moliere's  plays,  "a 
lesson  of  good  sense  to  those  who  suffer  from  the  social  ambition  to 
rise  above  their  proper  rank." 

36  23  the  Lord-Mayor's  show  :  for  an  account  of  this  interesting  an- 
nual London  carnival,  see  F.  W.  Fairholt's  "  Lord  Mayor's  Pageants,"  or 
the  short  sketch  by  Eric  Erood,    "  The  Lord  Mayor's  Show,"  1896. 

37  1  "the  lunatic,  the  lover":  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  V, 
i,  7  ff.  It  will  be  observed  that  Hazlitt  has  here,  as  usually,  trusted  to 
his  not  very  accurate  memory. 

37  ](!  Ariosto:  Lodovico  Ariosto  (1474-1533),  the  celebrated  Italian 
poet,  author  of  "  Orlando  Furioso."  He  began  to  write  his  great  poem 
about  1503,  and  published  it  in  1516  in  forty  cantos  (extended  after- 
wards to  forty-six).  Up  to  the  moment  of  his  death  he  never  ceased  to 
correct  and  improve  both  the  subject  and  the  style.  The  first  com- 
plete edition  of  the  poem  was  published  at  Ferrara  in  1532. 

37  10  Achilles  :  the  central  figure  in  the  Iliad  of  Homer,  which  chiefly 
tells  of  the  quarrel  between  Achilles  and  Agamemnon,  leader  of  the 
Greek  warriors.  "  In  Achilles,  Homer  summed  up  and  fixed  forever 
the  ideal  of  the  Greek  character"  (Symonds,  "  Studies  of  the  Greek 
Poets,"  I,  20). 


328  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

37  20  Plato :  "  The  Republic,"  Book  X. 

37  32  "which  ecstasy  is  very  cunning  in"  :    "  Hamlet,"  III,  iv,  138. 

38  19  Lord  Bacon :  "'  The  Advancement  of  Learning,"  Book  H, 
chap,  iv,  sect.  2  ff. 

39  1  "  Our  eyes  are  made  the  fools  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  II.  i,  44. 

39  3  "That  if  it  would  "  :   "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  V,  i,  19  ff. 
39  8  "The  flame  0'  th'  taper"  :  "  Cymbeline,"  H,  ii,  19. 

39  26  "  for  they  are  old  like  him  "  :  "  King  Lear,"  II,  iv,  291. 

40  11  When  Ltar  says  of  Edgar :  ibid.  Ill,  iv,  68. 

40  18  "  The  little  dogs  and  all "  :  "  King  Lear,"  III,  vi,  60. 

40  25  "  So  I  am  "  :   "  King  Lear,"  IV,  vii,  70. 

40  31  "  Oh  now,  for  ever  "  :  "  Othello,"  III,  iii,  347  ff. 

41  10  "Never,  lago  "  :   ibid.  Ill,  iii,  453  ff. 

41  20  "  But  there  where  I  have  gamer'd  "  :   ibid.  IV,  ii,  57. 

42  8  tragedies  of  Moore  and  Lillo :  Ldvvard  Moore  (1712-1757),  dram- 
atist and  writer  of  fables.  He  was  the  author  of  "The  Gamester" 
(1753),  supposed  to  be  the  strongest  lesson  against  gambling  ever 
preached  from  stage  or  pulpit.  With  Lyttleton,  Chesterfield,  and 
Horace  Walpole,  Moore  edited  the  lVo?-ld  from  1753  to  1757.  George 
Lillo  (1693-1739)  was  also  a  dramatist.  He  wrote  seven  plays  in  the 
line  of  what  was  known  as  the  "domestic  drama."  The  influence  of  his 
most  popular  play,  "  The  London  Merchant  or  The  History  of  George 
Barnwell"  (1731),  was  considerable. 

42  18  As  Mr.  Burke  observes :  "  Subhme  and  Beautiful,"  Part  I, 
sect.  XV  : 

Choose  a  day  on  which  to  represent  the  most  sublime  and  affecting  tragedy 
we  have ;  appoint  the  most  favourite  actors ;  spare  no  cost  upon  the  scenes  and 
decorations  ;  unite  the  greatest  efforts  of  poetry,  painting,  and  music  ;  and  when 
you  have  collected  your  audience,  just  at  the  moment  when  their  minds  are  erect 
with  expectation,  let  it  be  reported  that  a  state  criminal  of  high  rank  is  on  the 
point  of  being  executed  in  the  adjoining  square ;  in  a  moment  the  emptiness  of 
the  theatre  would  demonstrate  the  comparative  weakness  of  the  imitative  arts, 
and  proclaim  the  triumph  of  the  real  sympathy. 

43  8  "  Masterless  passion  "  :   "  Merchant  of  X'cnice,"  IV,  i,  50-51.    In 

Shaksperc  the  lines  are  : 

for  affection, 
Mistress  of  passion,  sways  it  lu  the  mood 
Of  what  it  likes  or  loathes. 

43  27  "  Now  night  descending  "  :   Pope,  "  Dunciad,"  I,  89-90. 

43  :i()  "  Throw  him  on  the  steep  "  :   Collins,  "  Ode  to  Fear,"  11.  14-15. 


NOTES  329 

43  33  "Ingratitude,  thou  marble-hearted":  "  King  Lear,"  I,  iv,  250: 

Ingratitude,  thou  marble-hearted  fiend. 

More  hideous  when  thou  show"st  thcc  in  a  child 

Than  the  sea-monster. 

45  •'?;!  Jacob's  Dream:  see  Genesis  xxxv,  9-15.  Ila^litt  aspired  to 
paint  a  picture  on  this  subject  symbolizing  the  development  of  society. 
Rembrandt  was  the  great  Dutch  painter  and  etcher  (i  607-1 669). 

46  2  Doctor  Chalmers:  Thomas  Chalmers  (1780-1847),  celebrated 
Scottish  divine  and  author,  professor  of  philosophy  at  St.  Andrews  and 
at  Edinburgh.  He  wrote  "  Discourses  on  Christian  Revelation  viewed 
in  Connection  with  Modern  Astronomy"  (1S17),  with  the  purpose  of 
reconciling  science  with  the  conception  of  Christianity.  See  Ilazlitt, 
"  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  Works,  IV,  185. 

46  13  "  our  fell  of  hair  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  V,  v,  11. 

46  15  Macbeth  is  only  tolerated  :  probably  this  refers  to  music  written 
for  the  play  by  Henry  Purcell  (i 658-1 695).  He  was  a  distinguished 
English  musical  composer,  organist  of  Westminster  from  1680,  and 
famous  for  "  Te  Deum  "  and  "Jubilate  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1694." 

46  10  the  Beggar's  Opera:  by  John  Gay  (1685-1732);  produced  at 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  January  29,  1728.  It  presented  the  people  of  the 
day  —  highwaymen,  pickpockets,  and  all  the  corruption  of  contemporary 
politics.  The  play  became  very  popular  throughout  the  eighteenth  and 
early  nineteenth  centuries  and  is  the  subject  of  a  number  of  Ilazlitt's 
theatrical  reviews.  See  reviews  of  it  in  "  The  Round  Table,"  Works, 
I,  65;  in  "View  of  English  Stage,"  Works,  VIII,  193,  254. 

46  23  "Obscurity  her  curtain  round  them  drew":  used  again  by 
Hazlitt  in  his  essay  "On  the  Ideal."  From  a  poem  "To  the  Honorable 
and  Reverend  F.  C."  in  Dodsley's  "Collection  of  Tocms,"  VI  (1758), 
138.  The  poem  (anonymously  published)  was  written  by  Sneyd  Davies 
(1709-1769)  and  was  addressed  to  Frederick  Cornwallis,  afterwards 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  See  Genilevtan''s  Magazine,  I,  174,  and 
Nichols, "  Illustrations  of  the  Literary  History  of  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury," Vol.  I.    Sec  also  Works,  XI,  570. 

47  it  "Between  the  acting"  :  "Julius  Caesar,"  II,  i,  63-69. 

48  12  "  Thoughts  that  voluntary  move  "  :   "  Paradise  Lost,"  III,  37. 

48  17  "  the  words  of  Mercury  "  :  "  Love's  Labor's  Lost,"  V,  ii,  at  close 
of  play. 

The  words  of  Mercury  are  harsh  after  the  songs  of  Apollo. 

49  11   "  the  secret  soul  of  harmony  "  :   Milton,  "  L'Allegro,"  1.  144  : 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony. 


330  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

49  32  "  the  golden  cadences  of  poetry  "  :  "  Love's  Labor  's  Lost,"  IV, 
ii,  127. 

50  3  "Sailing  with  supreme  dominion":  Gray,  "The  Progress  of 
Poesy,"  III,  3. 

50  13  The  merchant,  as  described  in  Chaucer:  Prologue  to  "Canter- 
bury Tales,"  1.  275  : 

His  resons  spak  he  ful  solempnely, 
Sowning  alway  th'  encrees  of  his  winning. 

50  15  Every  prose-writer :  this  part  of  the  subject  is  treated  at  large 
in  Hazlitt's  essay,  "  On  the  Prose  Style  of  Poets,"  Works,  VII,  5. 

51  3  Addison's  Campaign  :  the  famous  political  poem  written  by 
Joseph  Addison  (1672-1716)  in  1704  in  honor  of  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough to  celebrate  the  victory  at  Blenheim.  The  poem  is  called  a 
"  Gazette  in  Rhyme  "  in  Dr.  Joseph  Warton  (1722-1S00),  "An  Essay  on 
the  Writings  and  Genius  of  Pope"  (1756),  sect,  v,  pp.  267-268: 

Surely  the  regular  march  which  the  poet  has  observed  from  one  town  to 
another,  as  if  he  had  been  a  commissary  of  the  army,  cannot  well  be  excused. 

There  is  a  passage  in  Hoileau,  so  remarkably  opposite  to  this  fault  of  Addison, 
that  one  would  almost  be  tempted  to  think  he  had  the  Campaign  in  his  eye  when 
he  wrote  it,  if  the  time  would  admit  it. 

'■  Loin  ces  rimeurs  craintifs,  dont  I'esprit  phlegmatique 
Garde  dans  ses  fureurs  un  ordre  didactique ; 
Qui  chantent  d'un  heros  les  progres  eclatans, 
Maigrcs  Historicns,  siiivroiit  I'ordre  dcs  temps." 

Boileau,  "  L'Art  Poetique,"  chap,  ii 

51  25  His  pilgrims  walk  above  the  earth :  see  Bunyan,  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  at  the  end  of  Part  I. 

51  31  "  dews  of  Castalie  " :  Castalia  was  an  ancient  fountain  on  the  slope 
of  Mount  Parnassus  .sacred  to  the  Muses  and  Apollo.  Both  classical  and 
modern  poets  frequently  refer  to  it  as  a  source  of  inspiration. 

51  33  Philoctetes :  a  legendary  warrior  of  the  Greeks  who  was 
wounded  by  a  servant  or  accidentally  by  a  poisoned  arrow,  and  left  to 
die  on  the  island  of  Lemnos.  Sophocles  wrote  a  play  about  him.  The 
speeches  referred  to  by  Ilazlitt  come  near  the  close  of  the  play. 

52  10  "  As  I  walked  about  "  :  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  Part  I,  chap.  iii. 
52  24  Richardson's  romances  :  Ilazlitt  refers  to  the  works  of  the  first 

English  novelist,  Samuel  Richardson  (1689-1761)  —  "Pamela"  (1740), 
"Clarissa  Ilarlowe  "  (174S),  "  Sir  Charles  Grandison  "  (1753). 

62  32  "  give  an  echo  to  the  seat  "  :  "  Twelfth  Night,"  II,  iv,  21. 

63  13  "  Our  poesy  is  as  a  gum  "  :  "  Timon  of  Athens,"  1,  i,  20  ff. 


NOTES  331 

53  20  Ossian  :  or  Oisin,  a  semihistorical  Gaelic  bard  of  the  fourth  cen- 
tury. To  him  was  ascribed  the  authorship  of  the  poems  published  by 
James  Macpherson  in  1 760-1 763.  It  is  now  commonly  beheved  that 
Macpherson  took  great  liberties  with  the  originals,  even  if  they  ever 
really  existed  in  anything  at  all  resembling  the  form  given  in  the  alleged 
translations.  No  manuscripts  in  the  original  have  ever  been  produced. 
However,  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  poems  contributed  to  break  up 
the  tyranny  of  the  classical  school  of  the  eighteenth  century  and  thus 
to  prepare  the  way  for  the  romantic  revival.  See  article  on  Celtic  Liter- 
ature in  Encyclopaedia  Britannica. 

64  28  "  If  we  fly  into  the  uttermost  parts  "  :   Psalm  cxxxix. 

56  29  Thus  the  gate  of  hell  :  "  Lasciate  ogni  speranza,  voi  ch'  entrate  " 
(I^eave  every  hope,  ye  who  enter).  "These  words  of  color  obscure  I 
saw  written  at  the  top  of  the  gate  "  (Norton's  translation  of  Dante's 
"Inferno,"  Canto  III,  p.  11). 

57  1  "I  am  the  tomb  "  :  "  Inferno,"  Canto  XI.    Norton's  translation, 

P-5I- 

57  7  Count  Ugolino :  "Inferno,"  Canto  XXXIII.  Ibid.  pp.  1S1-187. 
This  is  that  most  pathetic  picture  of  the  starving  of  Count  Ugolino  and 
his  sons  in  the  ninth  circle. 

57  8  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  (1723-1792)  :  the  celebrated  English  portrait 
painter,  first  president  of  the  Royal  Academy,  intimately  associated  with 
Samuel  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  Garrick,  Burke,  and  other  great  English- 
men of  his  time.  We  get  an  interesting  view  of  Reynolds  from  Boswell's 
"  Life  of  Johnson,"  also  from  Goldsmith's  epitaph  in  "  The  Retaliation." 
Hazlitt  refers  to  him  many  times,  especially  in  Essays  XIII  and  XIV, 
Works,  VI,  122-145. 

57  28  liimentation  of  Selma  :  Colma's  lament  in  the  "  Songs  of  Selma  " : 

Often  had  they  seen  the  grove  of  Salgar,  the  dark  dwelling  of  white-bosomed 
Colma.  Colma  left  alone  on  the  hill,  with  all  her  voice  of  song  I  Salgar  promised 
to  come  :  but  the  night  descended  around.  Hear  the  voice  of  Colma,  when  she 
sat  alone  on  the  hill ! 

Then  follows  the  lament : 

I  hear  the  call  of  years !  They  say,  as  they  pass  along,  why  does  Ossian  sing  ? 
Soon  shall  he  lie  in  the  narrow  house,  and  no  bard  shall  raise  his  fame !  Roll  on, 
ye  dark-brown  years  ;  ye  bring  no  joy  on  your  course  I 

ON   ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE 

This  was  introductory  to  the  course  of  lectures,  "  The  Dramatic  Liter- 
ature of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth,"  delivered  at  the  Surrey  Institution  in 
1820.  They  were  published  in  the  same  year  and  again  in  1S21.  The 
present  text  is  a  reprint  of  the  second  edition. 


332  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

58  5  Drake:  Sir  Francis  Drake  (1540-1596),  great  English  admiral 
and  circumnavigator,  "  the  terror  of  the  Spanish  Indies  in  the  reign 
of  Queen  Elizabeth." 

58  5  Coke:  Sir  Edward  Coke  (1552-1634),  the  jurist,  contemporary, 
of  Shakspere  and  Bacon. 

58  7-S  Jonson,  Ben  Jonson  (i  573-1637) ;  Beaumont,  Francis  Beaumont 
(1584-1616);  Fletcher,  John  Fletcher  (1579-1625). 

59 'J-10  Webster,  John  Webster  (1580.^-1625);  Deckar,  Thomas 
Dekker  (c.  1570-c.  1641?)  ;  Marston,  John  Marston  (1575  ?-i634) ; 
Marlow,  Christopher  Marlowe  (i  564-1 593);  Chapman,  George  Chapman 
( 1 559  .'-1 634) ;  Heywood,  Thomas  Ileywood  (.M  575-1650) ;  Middleton, 
Thomas  Middleton  (i  570-1627)  ;  Rowley,  William  Rowley  (?  1 585-1 642). 

59  10  "  How  lov'd,  how  honour'd  once  "  :  Pope,  "  Elegy  to  the  Memory 
of  an  Unfortunate  Lady,"  I.  71 : 

How  lov'd,  how  honour'd  once,  avails  thee  not. 

59  30  "  draw  the  curtain  of  Time  "  :  "  Twelfth  Night,"  I,  v,  249. 

60  f),  20  "of  poring  pedantry,"  also  "pomp  of  elder  days":  sonnet 
written  in  a  blank  leaf  of  Dugdale,  "  Monasticon,"  Thomas  Warton 
(1728-1790). 

60  18  "the  sacred  influence  of  light  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  II,  1034. 

61  20  "nor  can  we  think  what  thoughts"  :  Dryden,  "The  Hind  and 
the  Panther,"  I,  315: 

Nor  can  I  think  what  thoughts  they  can  conceive. 

61  20  "Think,"  says  Shakespear  :  "  Cymbeline,"  III,  iv. 

62  '.)  "  by  nature's  own  "  :  "  Twelfth  Night,"  I,  v,  257. 

62  12  "  where  Pan,  knit  with  the  Graces  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  IV,  266. 

62  15  that  "  there  are  more  things  "  :  "  Hamlet,"  I,  v,  166. 

63  8  "  matchless,  divine,  what  we  will "  :  Pope, "  Imitations  of  Horace," 
Book  II,  Epistle  I,  1.  70 : 

Style  the  divine,  the  matchless,  what  you  will. 

64  3  "  they  were  sought  after  "  :   Dr.  Johnson. 

65  5  "  less  than  the  smallest  dwarfs  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  I,  779. 
65  7  "  desiring  this  man's  art  "  :   Shakspere,  vSonnet  XXIV,  I.  7. 

65  1:?  "in  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  I,  590. 
65  25  "his  soul  was  like  a  star"  :   Wordsworth,  "  Milton,  Written  in 
London,  1802." 

65  27  "  drew  after  him  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  II,  692. 

66  1  Venice  Preserved  :  published  in  1682  ;  a  very  popular  play  even 
in  the  early  nineteenth  century. 


NOTES  333 

66  15  Jonson's  learned  sock  :   Milton,  "  L'Allcgro,"  1.  132. 
69  12  "  penetrable  stuff  "  :  "  Hamlet,"  III,  iv,  36. 
69  23  "  My  peace  I  give  unto  you  "  :  John  xiv,  27. 
69  25  "  they  should  love  one  another  "  :  John  xv,  12. 

69  27  "  Woman,  behold  thy  son  "  :  John  xix,  26. 

70  28  "to  the  Jews  a  stumbling  block"  :   i  Corinthians  i,  23. 

71  2  "we  perceive  a  softness  coming  over  the  heart  of  a  nation"  :  as 
yet  no  one  has  discovered  the  source  of  this  quotation.  See  Xotes  aiul 
Queries,  ninth  scries,  VII,  3SS. 

717  "  soft  as  sinews  "  :  "  Hamlet,"  III,  iii,  71. 

71  2G  "The  best  of  men"  :  Dekker,  "The  Honest  Whore,"  Fart  I, 
Act  V,  scene  ii. 

72  2(i  Tasso  by  Fairfax  :  Edward  Fairfax  (1580  ?-i635).  ^  he  first  edi- 
tion of  his  translation  of  Tasso,  "Jerusalem  Delivered,"  appeared  in 
1600. 

72  27  Ariosto  by  Harrington:  Sir  John  Harrington  (1561-1612)  pub- 
lished a  transkition  of  Ariosto,  "  Orlando  Furioso." 

72  27  Homer  and  Hesiod  by  Chapman  :  George  Chapman  (1559-1634), 
dramatist  and  translator.  His  "Iliad"  was  published  in  161 1,  the 
"  Odyssey  "  in  161 6. 

72  28  Virgil  long  before  :  probably  refers  to  the  translation  of  the 
"yEneid"by  Gawain  Douglas  (1474-1522).  The  translation  into  ten- 
syllable  meter  was  made  between  1501  and  15 13. 

72  28  Ovid  soon  after:  Ovid  was  translated  by   Arthur  Golding    in 

1565-1575- 

72  28  Sir  Thomas  North  (1535  ?-i6oi  ?)  :  from  this  translation  of  Plu- 
tarch ^1579)  Shakspere  drew  most  of  his  material  for  his  Roman  plays. 

72  31  Catiline  and  Sejanus  :  classical  plays  by  Ben  Jonson,  the  former 
in  161 1,  the  latter  in  1603. 

73  3  the  satirist  Aretine :  Pictro  Aretino  (1492-1557),  an  Italian 
writer  of  the  sixteenth  century,  author  of  comedies,  sonnets,  licentious 
dialogues,  and  a  few  religious  works.  When  very  young  he  was  banished 
from  Arezzo  on  account  of  a  satirical  sonnet  which  he  composed  against 
indulgences.  According  to  some  accounts  he  died  by  falling  from  a  chair 
in  a  fit  of  laughter  caused  by  hearing  an  indecent  story. 

73  3  Machiavel:  Niccolo  Machiavclli  (1469-1527),  the  distinguished 
Italian  statesman  and  writer,  author  of  "II  Principe"  (The  Prince),  1513. 

73  3  Castiglione:  Baldassare  Castiglione  (i 478-1 529),  diplomatist  and 
man  of  letters.  His  famous  work  was  "  II  Cortegiano  "  (The  Courtier), 
called  by  the  Italians  "11  Libro  d'Oro  "  (The  Book  of  Gold),  and  was 
published   by  Aldus  in  Venice  in   152S.     It  was  first  translated   into 


334  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

English  by  Thomas  Hoby  in  1561.    Johnson  called  it  "the  best  book 
that  ever  was  written  on  good  breeding." 

73  5  Ronsard :  Pierre  de  Ronsard  (1524-1585),  famous  French  poet, 
one  of  the  Fleiade,  a  group  of  seven  writers  who  applied  to  the  vernac- 
ular language  the  critical  principles  which  they  had  learned  from  the 
classics. 

73  5  Du  Bartas :  Guillaume  de  Salluste  du  Bartas  (1544-1590).  His 
chief  work,  "  La  Sepmaine,"  a  poem  on  the  creation  of  the  world,  went 
through  thirty  editions  in  six  years.  He  was  much  admired  by  Spenser, 
Ben  Jonson,  and  other  Elizabethan  poets.  Joshua  Sylvester  made  a 
translation  of  the  book  in  159S. 

74  Irt  "'  Fortunate  fields  and  groves  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  IH,  568-570 : 

Like  those  Hesperian  Gardens  famed  of  old, 
Fortunate  fields  and  groves,  &c. 

74  22  Prospero's  Enchanted  Island  :  it  has  been  thought  probable  that 
Shakspere  in  writing  "The  Tempest"  had  before  him  the  account  by 
Jourdan  of  the  wreck  of  Sir  George  Somers's  ship  in  a  tempest  off  the 
Bermudas,  under  the  title  "  A  Discovery  of  the  Bermudas,  otherwise 
called  the  He  of  Divels,"  etc.  Setebos  and  perhaps  other  names  he  may 
have  taken  not  from  this  book  but  from  Eden's  "  History  of  Travaile," 

1577- 

74  2(i  "Right  well  I  wote  "  :  "  Faerie  Queene,"  Book  H,  Proem  i. 

75  2'J  Lear  is  founded  on  an  old  ballad :  this  ballad,  "  King  Leir,"  to 
be  found  in  Percy's  "  Reliques,"  is  probably  not  so  old  as  Shakspere. 
The  play  is  based  on  the  "  Historia  Regum  Britonum "  (c.  1130)  of 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  but  Shakspere  probably  took  the  story  from 
Holinshed's  Chronicle. 

75  29  Othello  on  an  Italian  novel:  "The  Hecatommithi "  of  Giraldi 
Cinthio  (1504-1573),  published  in  1565. 

76  2  "those  bodiless  creations  "  :  "  Hamlet,"  III,  iv,  138. 
76  «  "  Your  face,  my  Thane  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  I,  v,  60. 

76  13  Tyrrel  and  Forrest :  "  Richard  III,"  IV,  ii  and  iii.  Tyrrel, 
Dighton,  and  Forrest  at  the  order  of  Richard  killed  the  princes  in  the 
Tower. 

76  20  "thick  and  slab  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  IV,  i,  32. 

76  2.')  "snatched  a  wild  and  fearful  joy"  :  Gray,  "Ode  on  a  Distant 
Prospect  of  Eton  College,"  11.  38-40  : 

Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 
And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 


NOTES  335 

76  2!t  The  tales  of  Boccaccio  :  Giovanni  Boccaccio  (1313-1375)-  "  The 
Decameron,"  one  hundred  tales  supposed  to  be  told  by  a  group  of  ten 
people  on  ten  successive  days  in  134S,  the  year  of  the  great  plague  in 
Florence. 

76  oO  Fletcher  the  poet :  this  is  perhaps  a  bit  confusing,  as  one  might 
think  at  first  of  Phineas  Fletcher,  author  of  "  The  Purple  Island."  How- 
ever, John  Fletcher  (i  579-1 625),  who  died  of  the  plague,  is  intended. 

76  30  Marlow  was  stabbed:  Christopher  Marlowe  (i 564-1 593).  To 
escape  the  plague  which  was  raging  in  London  in  1593,  he  was  living 
in  Deptford,  and  there  in  a  tavern  brawl  he  received  a  wound  in  the 
head,  his  own  knife  being  turned  against  him  by  a  serving  man,  upon 
whom  he  had  drawn  it.  The  parish  record  bears  the  entry,  "  Christopher 
Marlowe,  slain  by  Francis  Archer,  the  i  of  June,  1593." 

76  34  "The   course  of  true  love":    "Midsummer   Night's    Dream," 

I,  i,  134- 

77  3  "The  age  of  chivalry  "  :  a  very  famous  passage.  Burke,  "  Reflec- 
tions on  the  Revolution  in  France  "  (edited  by  E.  J.  Payne,  1S85),  p.  89. 

77  4  Jousts  and  tournaments  :  Strutt,  "  Sports  and  Pastimes  of  the 
People  of  England"  (edited  by  Hone,  1838),  p.  125. 

Tournaments  and  justs,  though  often  confounded  with  each  other,  differed 
materially.  The  tournament  was  a  conflict  with  many  knights,  divided  into  parties 
and  engaged  at  the  same  time.  The  just  was  a  separate  trial  of  skill,  when  only 
one  man  was  opposed  to  another. 

77  ()  Sir  Philip  Sidney  (i 554-1 586)  :  poet  and  romance  writer,  always 
considered  as  the  type  of  English  chivalry.  The  story  of  his  death  at 
Zutphen  is  known  everywhere. 

77  8  the  gentle  Surrey:  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey  (c.  1517- 
1547).  His  name  is  associated  with  that  of  Wyatt  in  Tottel's  "  Miscel- 
lany" (1557).  He  has  the  distinction  of  being,  in  his  translation  of  the 
"vEneid,"  the  first  to  introduce  blank  verse  into  English  literature. 

77  1.J  Sir  John  Suckling  (i  609-1 642) :  English  poet.  From  his  father 
he  inherited  large  estates.  He  was  a  noted  gambler  and  has  the  distinc- 
tion of  being  the  inventor  of  the  game  of  cribbagc. 

77  14  "  Who  prized  black  eyes  "  :  "  The  Session  of  the  Poets," 
verse  20. 

77  17  "  Like  strength  reposing  " :  Keats,  "  Sleep  and  Poetry,"  1.  237  : 

"T  is  might  half  slumb'ring  on  its  own  right  arm. 

77  24  "they  heard  the  tumult  "  :  Cowper,  "  The  Task."  IV,  99-100. 
77  31  Fletcher's  Noble  Kinsmen :   this  play  was  printed  in  quarto  in 
1634.    On  the  title-page  it  was  stated  to  have  been  written  by  "the 


336  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

admirable  worthies  of  their  time,  Mr.  John  Fletcher  and  Mr.  William 
Shakespeare."  Modern  scholarship  is  disposed  to  accept  this,  granting 
to  Fletcher  the  most  of  the  play.  See  A.  II.  Thorndike's  "  Influence  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  on  Shakspere." 

78  5  Saturnalian  licence  :  originally  the  great  festival  of  Saturn  was 
celebrated  on  the  nineteenth  of  December,  but  after  Cassar's  reform 
of  the  calendar,  on  the  seventeenth.  However,  in  popular  usage  the 
celebration  lasted  seven  days.  The  time  was  one  of  general  joy  and 
mirth.  No  punishment  was  inflicted,  no  war  was  declared.  All  distinc- 
tions were  forgotten  so  that  masters  ate  with  slaves  and  the  toga  was 
not  worn.    Hence  the  phrase  has  come  to  mean  absolute  unrestraint. 

78  13  Returne  from  Parnassus:  "Printed  in  i6o6,  4to,  but  written 
during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  It  is  a  shrewd  and  lively  dramatic  satire 
on  many  of  the  poets  and  playwrights  of  the  period,  like  the  '  Great 
Assizes  holden  in  Parnassus,'  1645,  '^^'^  Suckling's  'Session  of  the 
Poets'"  (W.  C.  Ilazlitt). 

78  30  "  it  snowed  of  meat  and  drink  "  :  "  Canterbury  Tales,"  Prologue, 

345- 

78  34  as  Mr.  Lamb  observes  :    cf.  "  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic 

Poets,"  Lamb's  note  attached  to  Marston's  "  What  You  Will." 

79  4  "in  act  and  complement  extern  "  :  "  Othello,"  I,  i,  62-63  '■ 

The  native  act  and  figure  of  my  heart 
In  compliment  extern. 

79  11  Deckar  has  given  an  admirable  description  of  a  mad-house : 
"  Honest  Whore,"  Part  I,  i\ct  V,  scene  ii. 

79  18  "A  Mad  World,  my  Masters  "  :  a  comedy  by  Thomas  Middleton 
(1 60S). 

80  11   '"  like  birdlime,  brains  and  all  "  :  "  Othello,"  II,  i,  128. 

80  2;!  Materiam  superabat  opus:  Ovid,  "  Metamorphoses,"  II,  5. 

81  11  "but  Pan  is  a  God"  :  John  Lyly,  "  Midas,"  Act  IV,  scene  i. 

ON  THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING 

Our  present  text  is  the  fir.st  of  the  two  papers  in  "Tabic  Talk"  on 
this  subject.  Our  reprint  is  from  the  second  edition  of  1S24,  a  reprint 
of  the  first  edition  (Vol.  I,  1821  ;  Vol.  II,  1822).  These  essays  appeared 
in  the  /.oiu/oii  Alai^nziiic  for  December,  1820. 

82  1  "There  is  a  pleasure  in  painting":  see  Drydcn,  "Spanish, 
I'ri.ir,"  II,  I  : 

'J'jicre  is  a  pleasure,  sure,  in  being  mad,  whicii  nuiie  but  madmen  know. 


NOTES  337 

Or  Cowpcr,  "The  Task,  the  Timepiece,"  11.  285-2S6: 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  potiii-  pains 
Which  only  poets  know. 

82  15  "study  with  joy  her  manner":    Cowper,   "The   Task,"   III, 

o^*? 22S  I 

.  .  .  acknowledges  with  joy 
His  manner,  and  with  rapture  tastes  his  style. 

82  2(i  spolia  opima :  the  spoils  taken  by  one  Roman  general  from 
another. 

83  Hi  "  more  tedious  than  a  twice-told  talc  "  :  "  King  John,"  III,  iv,  loS: 

l.ife  is  as  tedious  as  a  twice-told  talc. 

83  note  Werter  :  "  The  Sorrows  of  Wertcr  "  by  Goethe  (1749-1832). 

This  extract  is  taken  from  Letter  VIII,  May  26.  This  book  was  pub- 
lished in  October,  1774,  and  made  Goethe  widely  famous.  It  is  the  book 
of  the  age,  expressing  the  pain  under  which  the  thoughtful  men  of  the 
time  were  languishing.  See  Carlyle,  "  Lectures  on  German  Literature  "  ; 
also  Ilazlitt,  "  On  the  German  Drama,"  Works,  V,  35S-364. 

84  7  "'  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is"  :  the  first  line  of  the  poem  attrib- 
uted to  Sir  Edward  Uyer  (i  550.'- 1607). 

84  11  "  Pure  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind  "  :  "  Dryden's  translation 
of  the  Second  Satire  of  Persius,  line  233.  According  to  Frances  Rey- 
nolds ('Johnsonian  Miscellanies'  (edited  by  G.  1!.  Hill),  II,  272),  the 
lines  are  quoted  by  Johnson  at  the  end  of  an  eloquent  culogium  of 
Mrs.  Thrale"   (Works,   VI,  470). 

85  8  "  palpable  to  feeling  as  to  sight  "  :  perhaps  remembering  the  line 
from  "  Othello,"  I,  ii,  76  : 

'T  is  probable  and  palpable  to  thinking. 

85  20  Wilson:  Richard  Wilson  (1714-1782),  famous  landscape  painter, 
one  of  the  original  members  of  the  Royal  Academy  in  1768.  lie  has 
been  called  "  The  English  Claude."  For  frequent  references  to  Wilson, 
see  Hazlitt,  "Conversations  of  Northcote,"  Works,  Vol.  VI. 

86  17  The  first  head  I  ever  tried  to  paint :  "  Memoirs,"  I,  loS,  note  : 

The  person  who  sat  to  him  for  this  picture  (nearly  destroyed  by  megilp)  was 
an  old  cottager  he  met  near  Manchester.  She  died  very  soon  after  her  likeness 
was  taken.  The  picture  used  for  a  long  time  to  hang  in  Mr.  John  Hunt's  room 
when  he  was  in  Coldbath  Fields  Prison,  and  !\Ir.  Hazlitt  would  go  there  and  gaze 
at  it  fondly.    It  is  now  in  the  hands  of  the  family. 

See  Introduction,  p.  xix ;  also  Ilazlitt,  "  ( 'onversations  of  James 
Northcote  "  (edited  by  Edmund  Gosse,  1894),  pp.  xvii  ff. 


338  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

86  32  I  had  seen  an  old  head  by  Rembrandt  at  Burleigh-House :  he  is 
supposed  to  have  been  at  the  age  of  about  seventeen  (1795)  when  Haz- 
litt  made  the  visit  to  Burleigh  which  left  so  vivid  an  impression  upon 
his  memory.  He  made  his  second  visit  probably  in  1803.  In  1824,  in 
writing  of  the  pictures  at  Burleigh  House,  he  speaks  of  the  great  differ- 
ence between  the  effect  then  and  now : 

Thy  [Burleigh  House]  groves  were  leafless  then  as  now  :  it  was  the  middle  of 
winter  twice  that  I  visited  thee  before  ;  but  the  lark  mounted  in  the  sky,  and  the 
sun  smote  my  youthful  blood  with  its  slant  ray,  and  the  ploughman  whistled  as  he 
drove  his  team  afield  ;  Hope  spread  out  its  glad  vistas  through  thy  fair  domains, 
Oh,  Burleigh !  Fancy  decked  thy  walls  with  works  of  sovereign  art,  and  it  was 
spring,  not  winter,  in  my  breast.  All  is  still  the  same,  like  a  petrifaction  of  the 
mind — the  same  things  in  the  same  places;  but  their  effect  is  not  the  same 
upon  me.  I  am  twenty  years  the  worse  for  7vcar  and  tear.  .  .  .  Ah  !  thought  I, 
there  is  that  fine  old  head  by  Rembrandt ;  there  within  those  cold  grey  walls,  the 
painter  of  old  age  is  enshrined,  immortalized  in  some  of  his  inimitable  works. 

87  4  Sir  Joshua:  SirJoshuaReynolds(i723-i792);see"Conversationsof 
James  Northcote."  This  point  is  discussed  in  Hazlitt's  two  papers  on  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds's  "  Discourses,"  especially  the  second,  in  "  Table  Talk." 

In  connection  with  this  the  following  passage  is  interesting  : 

Among  other  essays  in  painting  which  he  made  upon  commission,  was  in 
half  length  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  with  which  he  was  put  out  of  conceit  by  wit- 
nessing a  performance  of  Indian  jugglers ;  and  a  head  of  Lear,  which,  from  all 
that  I  can  learn,  was  quite  an  early  experiment.  It  is  a  sketch  of  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  the  old  mad  king,  with  his  white  hair  waving  in  the  wind,  very  char- 
acteristic and  Shakespearian. 

He  was  very  impatient  with  himself,  and  when  he  could  not  produce  the  effect 
he  desired,  he  has  been  known  to  cut  the  canvas  into  ribbons.  The  grand  object 
of  his  ambition  as  an  artist  was  the  illustration  of  the  subject  of  Jacob's  Ladder; 
and  here  he  never,  in  his  own  estimation,  so  much  as  approached  success. 

In  1S04  he  commenced  a  portrait  of  his  father,  who  was  now  beginning  to  get 
on  in  years.  "  I  am  sure  my  father  had  as  little  vanity  for  the  art  as  most  persons, 
yet  when  he  had  sat  to  me  a  few  times  ...  he  grew  evidently  uneasy  when  it  was 
a  fine  day,  that  is,  when  the  sun  shone  into  the  room,  so  that  we  could  not  paint ; 
and  when  it  became  cloudy,  began  to  bustle  about  and  ask  me  if  I  was  not  getting 
ready.  .  .  .  Between  my  father's  love  of  sitting  and  mine  of  painting,  we  hit 
upon  a  tolerable  likeness  at  last ;  but  the  picture  is  cracked  and  gone,  and  megilp 
(the  bane  of  the  English  School)  has  destroyed  as  fine  an  old  Nonconformist 
head  as  we  could  hope  to  see  in  these  degenerate  times." 

The  operating  of  the  megilp  has  not  been  quite  so  fatal  in  the  present  instance 
as  the  painter's  words  might  leave  us  to  conclude.  The  picture  is  still  in  exist- 
ence, and  although  the  deleterious  element  in  the  old  varnish  had  undoubtedly 
damaged  it  to  some  slii^ht  extent,  it  is  in  very  fair  preservation  at  this  moment, 
after  upwards  of  sixty  years'  exposure  to  all  atmospheric  influences.    It  was 


NOTES  339 

exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy  in  iSo6,  where  perhaps  the  artist  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  let  it  go  and  to  give  no  more  last  touches.  .  .  . 

He  had  abandoned  now  all  expectation  of  succeeding  as  an  artist;  but  it  was 
while  he  was  in  London,  in  1805,  as  I  have  some  reason  to  think,  that  he  painted 
the  portrait  of  Lamb  in  the  costume  of  a  Venetian  Senator,  which  has  this  double 
interest,  that  is,  the  likeness  of  so  dear  and  old  a  friend,  and  that  it  was  the  last 
time  that  he  took  the  pencil  in  hand.i  The  picture  represents  Lamb  as  he  was 
about  thirty,  and  it  is  by  far  the  most  pleasing  and  characteristic  resemblance  we 
possess  of  him  as  a  comparatively  young  man.  The  costume  was  the  painter's  whim 
and  must  be  said  to  detract  from  the  effect  of  the  whole  ("Memoirs,"  I,  109-113). 

88  5  "  as  in  a  glass  darkly  "  :   i  Corinthians  xiii,  12. 

88  7  "  sees  into  the  life  of  things  "  :  Wordsworth,  "  Lines  Composed 
a  Yew  Miles  above  Tintern  Abbey,"  1.  50. 

88  18  Jan  Steen  (i 626-1 679)  :  famous  Flemish  figure  painter.  He 
liked  to  paint  the  comedy  of  daily  life  in  a  kindly  manner,  usually  quite 
differently  from  Hogarth. 

88  18  Gerard  Dow  (1613-1680)  :  celebrated  Flemish  painter.  He  was 
remarkable  for  the  time  and  pains  which  he  spent  on  all  the  details  of 
his  pictures. 

88  20  "mist,   the  common  gloss  of  theologians":    "Paradise    Lost," 

V,  43 5-436. 

89  4  Opie:  John  Opie  (1761-1807),  historical  and  portrait  painter, 
born  in  Cornwall.  He  was  brought  to  London  in  1780  under  the  patron- 
age of  Peter  Pindar  (Dr.  Wolcot).    He  wrote  and  lectured  on  art. 

89  4  Fuseli :  see  page   19  and  note. 

89  4  Northcote  :  James  Northcote  (1746-1831),  historical  and  portrait 
painter,  a  pupil  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  His  works  number  about  two  thou- 
sand. See  Hazlitt,  "Conversations  of  James  Northcote,"  \Vorks,  Vol.  VL 

89  11  Richardson  .  .  .  tells  a  story  :  Jonathan  Richardson  (1665-1745), 
author  and  portrait  painter.  He  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Pope,  whose 
head  he  painted.  He  wrote  a  number  of  essays  on  painting.  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  said  that  Richardson  understood  his  art  scientifically,  but  that 
his  manner  was  cold  and  hard. 

90  15-1(!  Correggio  (1494-1534),  Leonardo  da  Vinci  (1452-1 519),  Andrea 
del  Sarto  (1487-1531)  :  distinguished  Italian  painters. 

90  19  "'  That  you  might  almost  say  "  :  John  Donne,  "  An  Anatomy  of 
the  World,  Second  Anniversary,"  1.  246 : 

.  .  .  Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought. 
That  one  might  almost  say  her  body  thought. 

1  Perhaps  with  the  exception  of  a  copy  of  Titian,  which  he  attempted  to  make 
for  a  friend  later  in  life  ;  but  this  was  never  completed. 


340  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

90  note  i.  The  famous  Schiller  (1759-1S05)  :  Ilazlitt  knew  Schiller's 
"Don  Carlos"  and  "The  Robbers"  and  was  much  influenced  by  the 
views  of  political  and  intellectual  liberty  expressed  by  Schiller.  See 
Works,  V,  358-364. 

90  note  2.  The  rich  impasting :  impasting  is  the  thick  covering  of  the 
paint. 

90  note  2.    Titian  (1477-1576)  ;    Giorgione  (1477-1510). 

91  8  old  Abraham  Tucker:  By  1S04  Ilazlitt's  abridgment  of  Tucker's 
"  Light  of  Nature  Revealed  "  had  been  begun.    See  Works,  IV,  37 1-385. 

91  21  "the  source  of  thirty  years":  see  Northcote,  "Life  of  Rey- 
nolds," II,  2S6. 

91  o\  Shaftesbury's  Characteristics  :  "  Characteristics  of  Men,  Man- 
ners, Opinions,  and  Times"  was  the  famous  work  of  the  Earl  of  Shaftes- 
bury, Anthony  Ashley  Cooper.  See  p.  13  and  note.  His  work  was  illus- 
trated by  the  well-known  line  engraver,  Simon  Gribelin  (1661-1733). 
Gribelin  went  to  England  in  16S0  and  was  very  popular  among  the 
nobility.  His  most  famous  work  was  the  "Apotheosis  of  James  I  "  on 
the  ceiling  of  the  banqueting  room  in  Whitehall. 

93  10  "  ever  in  the  haunch  of  winter  sings  "  :  "' 2  Henry  IV,"  IV,  iv,  92. 

92  20  Correggio,  "7 a/so  am  a  painter!^':  see  Vasari,  "Lives"  (edited 
by  Blashfield  and  Hopkins),  III,  32  seq.  Though  Correggio  was  exceed- 
ingly sensitive  and  modest,  this  legend  regarding  him  long  persisted, 
^^  A)ichio  soil  /^/tlorf"  (I  also  am  a  painter). 

93  2(5  Honourable  Mr.  Skeffington :  Sir  Lumley  St.  George  Skeffing- 
ton  ( 1 771-1850),  author  of  "The  Sleeping  Beauty"  and  other  plays. 

92  oO  the  battle  of  Austerlitz  :  December  2,  1S05,  a  great  victory  for 
Napoleon. 

93  5  but  he  himself  is  gone  :  Hazlitt's  father,  William  Ilazlitt,  the  elder, 
died  July  16,  1820.  He  had  lived  and  preached  in  the  village  of  Wem 
from  1787  to  1805.  From  there  he  moved  to  Addlestone,  Surrey,  thence 
to  Crediton  and  Winswood. 

ON  READING  OLD  BOOKS 

This  essay  appeared  first  in  the  LonJiut  Mai:^azinc  for  1S21  and  was 
reprinted  in  "The  Plain  Speaker"  (1826)  as  the  third  essay  in  Vol- 
ume II.  The  differences  between  the  two  imprints  are  immaterial.  Our 
text  follows  that  of  "  The  Plain  Speaker." 

94  4  Tales  of  My  Landlord  :  a  series  of  Scott's  novels  appearing  under 
the  title,  "Tales  of  My  Landlord,  collected  and  arranged  by  Jedidiah 
Cleisbolham,"  beginning  with  "  IJlack  Dwarf"  and  "Old  Mortality"  in 


NOTES  341 

1816,  and  including  '"  Rob  Roy"  (1817),  "Heart  of  Midlothian"  (iSiS), 
"  liride  of  Lammcrmoor"  (1819),  and  "  Legend  of  Montrose"  (1819). 

94  {)  Lady  Morgan  (1783  or  1785-1859)  :  Sydney  Owenson,  daughter 
of  Robert  Owenson,  was  the  author  of  stirring  Irish  tales  and  was  very 
popular  in  her  day. 

94  8  Anastasius  :  "Anastasius  or  Memoirs  of  a  Greek,  Written  at  the 
Close  of  the  Eighteenth  Century"  appeared  anonymously  in  1S19.  It 
was  received  most  favorably  and  was  assigned  to  Byron.  However,  its 
author  was  Thomas  Hope  (1774  .'-1831).  The  hero  is  a  sort  of  oriental 
Gil  Bias.  The  book  was  discussed  in  the  Eilinbiirgh  Revirau  March,  182 1. 

94  10  Delphine :  a  novel  by  Madame  dc  Staiil,  published  in  1802. 
See  the  JuIinl>!n-oJi  AV77V7.',  April,  1803. 

94  18  Andrew  Millar  (1707-1768):  one  of  the  most  eminent  book- 
sellers of  the  eighteenth  century,  publisher  of  Fielding's  works  and  of 
Dr.  Johnson's  Dictionary.  Dr.  Johnson  once  said  of  him,  "  I  respect 
Millar,  Sir,  he  has  raised  the  price  of  literature."  See  E.  Marston, 
"  Sketches  of  Some  Booksellers  of  the  Time  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  " 
(1902). 

94  19  Thurloe's  State  Papers:  a  collection -of  the  letters  of  John 
Thurloe  (1616-1668)  published  in  1742.  He  was  a  very  capable  secre- 
tary of  state  during  the  Protectorate  and  has  left  in  his  papers  a  valuable 
record  of  the  doings  of  the  time. 

94  20  Sir  William  Temple  (1628-1699)  :  his  "  Essays  "  were  published 
in  16S0  and  1692.  Temple  is  to  be  remembered  as  a  distinguished  diplo- 
mat and  the  patron  of  Dean  Swift. 

94  21  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  (1646-1723) :  his  original  name  was  Gott- 
fried Kniller.  He  became  famous  for  his  portraits  of  royalty.  It  was 
while  sitting  to  Kneller  for  a  portrait,  commissioned  by  Pepys,  that 
James  heard  the  news  of  the  landing  of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  the 
future  William  III. 

95  20  rifaccimentos  :  a  new  modeling  or  recasting  of  a  literary  work. 
The  proper  plural  according  to  the  Italian  would  be  rifacimeitti. 

96  8  Fortunatus's  Wishing-Cap  :  in  "  The  Nights  "  of  Straparola,  an 
Italian  novelist  of  the  sixteenth  century.  For  an  interesting  account  of 
this  legend  and  its  connection  with  the  drama,  see  Professor  C.  H.  ller- 
ford's  "  Studies  in  the  Literary  Relations  of  England  and  Germany  in 
the  Sixteenth  Century." 

96  11  Bruscambille:  Sterne.  "Tristram  Shandy,"  Book  III,  chap.  xxxv. 
96  12  Peregrine  Pickle  (1751)  :  by  Tobias  Smollett  (1721-1771). 
96  12  Tom  Jones:   Masciuerade,  Book  XIII,  chap,  vii ;  Thrackum  and 
Square,  Book  III,  chap,  iii;  Molly  Seagrim,  Book  1\',  cliap.  viii;  Sophia, 


342  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

Book  V,  chap,  iv ;  x\unt's  Lecture,  Book  VIL  chap.  iii.  See  HazUtt, 
Works,  VH,  3. 

97  14  Ballantyne  press :  James  Ballantyne  (i  772-1833),  a  great  friend  of 
Walter  Scott,  established  the  press  which  printed  Scott's  works.  It  will  be 
remembered  that  Scott  assumed  the  great  debt  caused  by  the  failure  of 
this  concern  and  spent  the  money  from  his  books  in  paying  the  creditors. 

97  15  Minerva  press  :  from  this  press  in  Leadenhall  Street,  London, 
were  issued  in  the  late  years  of  the  eighteenth  and  early  nineteenth 
century  popular  romances,  highly  colored  and  very  sensational. 

97  21  Cooke's  pocket-edition :  Cooke's  "  Select  Edition  of  British 
Novels"  (1792).  John  Cooke  (1731-1810),  bookseller,  made  large  for- 
tunes in  publishing  popular  works  in  weekly  parts.  Mr.  W.  C.  Hazlitt 
says  that  Hazlitt  became  acquainted  with  this  book  through  his  father's 
being  an  original  subscriber  to  the  series.  "  In  those  days  Cooke's 
edition  of  the  British  poets  came  up.  .  .  .  IIow  I  loved  these  little  six- 
penny numbers,  containing  whole  poets  !  I  doated  on  their  size,  on 
their  wrapper,  containing  lists  of  other  poets,  and  on  the  engravings 
from  Kirk"    (Leigh  Hunt,  "  Autobiography"  (i860),  p.  76). 

97  24  Romance  of  the  Forest:  published  1791,  by  Mrs.  Ann  Radcliffe 
(1764-1823),  writer  of  romantic  tales  which  abound  in  descriptions  of 
scenes  of  mystery  and  terror. 

97  25  "  sweet  in  the  mouth  .  .  .  bitter  in  the  belly  "  :   Revelation  x,  9. 

97  27  "  gay  creatures  "  :   Milton,  "  Comus,"  1.  299. 

98  2  Tom  Jones  discovers  Square :  "  Tom  Jones,"  Book  V,  chap.  v. 
98  3  Parson  Adams:  "Joseph  Andrews,"  Book  IV,  chap.  xiv. 

98  0  Joseph  Andrews:  Henry  Fielding's  first  novel,  published  1742, 
was  inspired  by  the  first  English  novel,  "  Pamela"  (1740),  by  Richardson. 
98  l.'>  Major  Bath:  in  Fielding's  novel,  "Joseph  Andrews." 
98  14  Commodore  Trunnion  :  in  "  Peregrine  Pickle,"  by  Smollett. 
98  14  Trim  :  in  Sterne's  "  Tristram  Shandy." 
98  14  Uncle  Toby  :  in  '"  Tristram  Shandy." 
98  15  Gil  Bias  :  in  Le  Sage's  satire  of  same  name. 
98  15  Dame  Lorenza  Sephora  :  in  "  Gil  Bias." 
98  K)  Laura :  the  lady  to  whom  Petrarch  wrote. 
98  K;  Lucretia  :  in  "Joseph  Andrews." 

98  ;i()  Chubb's  Tracts  :  "  Tracts  and  Posthumous  Works,"  by  Thomas 
Chubb  (1697-1747),  published  in  1754.  His  tracts  won  for  him  a  place 
among  the  deists  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

99  5  "  fate,  free-will  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  II,  560. 

99  !i  "Would  I  had  never  seen"  :  Christopher  Marlowe's  (1564-1593) 
"  Dr.  Faustus,"  scene  xix. 


NOTES  343 

99  11  Hartley,  Hume,  Berkeley:  David  Hartley  (1705-1757), "Observa- 
tions on   Man"  (1749);    David   Hume  (1711-1776);   George  Berkeley 

(1685-1753)- 

99  11  Locke:  John  Locke  (1632-1704),  famous  philosopher,  author 
of  "  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding  "  (1690).  The  first  book  treats 
of  innate  ideas,  the  second  traces  the  origin  of  ideas,  the  third  deals 
with  languages,  and  the  fourth  lays  down  the  limits  of  the  understanding. 

99  13  Hobbes :  Thomas  Hobbes  (158S-1679),  the  noted  English  phi- 
losopher, gave  an  exposition  of  his  political  philosophy  in  his  "  Levia- 
than "  {1651). 

99  19  New  Eloise  :  Rousseau's  "  La  Nouvelle  Heloise"  was  published 
in  1 761,  his  "Contrat  Social  "  in  1762, his"  fimile"  in  1762,  and  his  "Con- 
fessions," begun  in  1766  and  finished  not  long  before  his  death  in  1778. 
References  here  are  to  Part  VI,  Letters  IX-XL 

99  32  I  have  spoken  elsewhere :  on  the  Character  of  Rousseau  in  "  The 
Round  Table,"  Works,  Vol.  L 

100  6  Sir  Fopling  Flutter :  in  the  comedy,  "  The  Man  cjf  Mode " 
(1676),  by  Sir  George  Etheredge  (1635  .'-1691). 

100  18  leurre  de  dupe:  Rousseau,  "Confessions,"  IV,  4  :  "A  lure  for  a 
gull."    See  Works,  IV,  5;  VII,  225. 

100  20  "a  load  to  sink"  :  "  Henry  VIII,"  III,  i,  2. 

100  note  a  friend,  who  had  some  lottery  puffs  :  Charles  Lamb.  Writ- 
ing to  Mrs.  llazlitt,  November  7,  1809,  Mary  Lamb  says,  "A  man  in 
the  India  House  has  resigned,  by  which  Charles  will  get  twenty  pounds 
a  year;  and  White  has  prevailed  on  him  to  write  some  more  lottery 
puffs." 

Mr.  Lucas  says :  "  Of  the  lottery  puffs  we  shall  probably  never  know 
any  more.  They  were,  I  imagine,  written  for  Bish,  the  principal  lottery 
contractor,  whose  devices  to  interest  speculators  were  very  varied  and 
ingenious"  ("  Life  of  Lamb,"  I,  299). 

101  9  "  Marcian  Colonna  "  :  title  of  a  volume  of  poetry  published  in  1820 
under  the  name  of  Barry  Cornwall  (B.  W.  Procter).  The  line  quoted 
by  Hazlitt  begins  Lamb's  sonnet. 

101  10  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  :   this  poem  by  Keats  was  published  in  1S20. 

101  12  "  come  like  shadows  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  IV,  i,  3. 

101  26  the  great  preacher:  Edward  Irving  (i 792-1834)  was  born  at 
Annan,  near  Ecclefechan,  Carlyle's  birthplace.  While  he  attended 
Edinburgh  University  he  gave  private  lessons  to  Jane  Welsh.  At 
Kirkcaldy  in  18 16  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Carlyle,  who  had  come 
to  teach  in  the  opposite  school.  Carlyle  once  said,  "  But  for  Irving  I 
had  never  known  what  the   communion   of  man  with    man   means." 


344  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

Before  he  went  to  London  in  July,  1822,  he  had  given  Carlyle  an  intro- 
duction to  Jane  Welsh.  He  always  loved  Jane  Welsh,  who  said  on  one 
occasion,  "  If  I  had  married  Irving  the  tongues  would  never  have  been 
heard."  His  career  before  he  went  to  London,  his  popularity  and  suc- 
cess there,  have  made  him  one  of  the  most  striking  figures  in  ecclesias- 
tical history.  There  are  many  references  to  him  in  Lamb's  Letters  and 
in  Crabb  Robinson's  Diary.  See  also  Ilazlitt's  account  of  him,  in  "  .Spirit 
of  the  Age,"  IV,  222. 

101  30  "as  the  hart  that  panteth  "  :   Psalm  xlii,  i . 

101  32  Schiller's  Robbers:  this  play  was  printed  in  17S1  and  produced 
in  17S2.    It  made  a  great  impression  in  Germany  and  in  England. 

The  Robbers  was  the  first  play  I  ever  read  :  and  the  effect  it  produced  upon 
me  was  the  greatest.  It  stunned  me  like  a  blow,  and  I  have  not  recovered  enough 
from  it  to  describe  how  it  was.  .  .  .  Five-and-twenty  years  have  elapsed  since  I 
first  read  the  translation  of  the  Robbers,  but  they  have  not  blotted  the  impression 
from  my  mind.  —  "Lectures  on  Age  of  Elizabeth,"  Lecture  VIII  (1820). 

101  33  "  Giving  my  stock  "  :  "As  You  Like  It,"  II,  i,  48-49 : 

Giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  had  too  much. 

102  1  Coleridge's  fine  Sonnet:  this  sonnet  was  printed  in  1796.  The 
note  appended  seems  to  imply  that  Coleridge  wrote  it  on  his  first  read- 
ing of  "The  Robbers"  at  Cambridge  not  later  than  1794.  If  so,  he 
could  have  known  Schiller  only  in  the  English  version. 

102  7  I  believe  I  may  date  :  see  "  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets," 
pp.  175  ff. 

102  12  Valentine,  Tattle,  Miss  Prue :  characters  in  Congreve's  "  Love 
for  Love"  (1695). 

102  lii  Intus  et  in  cute:  Pcrsius,  "  Satires,"  III,  30: 

Ego  te  intus  et  in  cute  novi. 

I  knew  thee  intimately  and  in  the  skin. 

102  24  Sir  Humphry  Davy  (1778-1S29):  the  famous  natural  philoso- 
pher.   His  lectures  at  the  Royal  Academy  began  in  1801. 

102  31  The  Spectator,  etc. :  see  "  On  Periodical  Essayists,"  p.  14. 

103  8  Clarissa:  heroine  of  "  Clarissa  Harlowe  "  (1748). 

103  8  Clementina:   heroine  of  "  Sir  Charles  Grandison"  (1753). 

103  8  Pamela:   heroine  of  "  Pamela  "  (1740). 

103  8  "  with  every  trick  "  :  "  All 's  Well."  I,  i,  107. 

103  l.~)  Miss :    probably  the  lady  of  "Liber  Amoris,"   Works, 

VII,  501. 


NOTES  345 

103  15  "that  ligament,  fine  as  it  was":  "Tristram  Shandy,"  IJook  \T, 
chap.  X,  The  Story  of  Lc  Fever.  The  story  continues  from  chap,  vi  to 
chap.  xii. 

103  21  His  story  of  the  Hawk  :  "  The  Decameron,"  by  15occaccio,  fifth 
day,  ninth  story.  Sec  in  "Lectures  on  Age  of  Elizabeth,"  Works,  V, 
34C'-347  : 

Federigo  being  in  love,  without  meeting  with  any  return,  spends  all  his  sub- 
stance, having  nothing  left  but  one  poor  hawk,  which  he  gives  to  his  lady  for  her 
dinner  when  she  comes  to  his  house ;  she,  knowing  this,  changes  her  resolution, 
and  marries  him,  by  which  means  he  becomes  very  rich. 

103  24  I  remember,  as  long  ago  as  the  year  1798  :  it  will  be  remembered 
that  this  was  the  year  in  which  Ilazlitt  met  Coleridge  at  Shrewsbury 
and  later  Wordsworth  at  Alfoxden.  See  '"  My  First  Acquaintance  with 
Poets,"  pp.  175  ff. 

103  2.")  Farquhar  .  .  .  Recruiting  Officer  :  Farquhar  (1678-1707),  promi- 
nent dramatist  of  the  Ivestoration  period,  produced  "  The  Recruiting 
Officer"  in  1706.  While  he  was  in  the  army  and  stationed  at  Shrews- 
bury he  wrote  the  play. 

103  2(i  "  at  one  proud  swoop  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  IV,  iii,  219  : 

At  one  fell  swoop. 

103  28  Burke's  Reflections  :  see  pp.  29  ff.  and  notes. 

103  note  During  the  peace  of  Amiens :  the  terms  of  the  peace  of  Amiens 
were  concluded  in  March,  1S02.  Negotiations  were  opened  by  Napoleon 
to  allow  him  time  to  organize  his  resources.  In  May,  1S03,  England 
anticipated  a  renewal  of  his  attack  by  a  declaration  of  war.  See  Ilazlitt's 
account  in  his  "  Life  of  Napoleon,"  chaps,  xxx  and  xxxi. 

104  4  "with  all  its  giddy  raptures  "  :  Wordsworth,  "  Lines  Composed 
a  Few  Miles  above  Tintern  Abbey  " : 

That  time  is  past 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.    . 

104  .">  "  embalmed  with  odours  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  II,  843. 

104  14  "  His  form  had  not  yet  lost "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  I,  591. 

104  18  "falls  flat"  :  ibid.  I,  460-461. 

104  28  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord:  in  1796  an  attack  was  made  by  the 
Duke  of  Bedford  and  Lord  Lauderdale  upon  Burke  on  account  of 
the  pension  which  he  received  from  the  government.  His  reply  m  the 
letter  with  the  name  given  above  (1796)  is  one  of  our  classics,  called  by 


346  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

Lord  Morley  the  most  splendid  repartee  in  the  EngHsh  language.  See 
'"  Life  of  Burke,"  by  John  Morley,  p.  198.  The  reader  should  compare  it 
with  Hazlitt's  Letter  to  William  Gifford,  Works, Vol.  I.  See  Hazlitt,  "Polit- 
ical Essays,"  Character  of  Burke,  Works,  Vol.  Ill,  especially  pp.  335-336. 

104  33  Junius :  the  signature  of  the  anonymous  writer  of  letters  who 
has  succeeded  in  baffling  the  curiosity  of  critics  for  more  than  a  hun- 
dred years.  These  letters,  attacking  the  government,  appeared  in  the 
Public  Advertiser,  a  paper  published  by  Woodfall,  from  January  21, 
1769,  to  January  21,  1772.  The  sensation  created  by  these  attacks  not 
only  on  parties  and  policies  but  also  upon  private  individuals  was  tre- 
mendous. The  authorship  has  been  attributed  to  at  least  thirty-five 
persons,  of  whom  Burke  was  the  choice  of  contemporary  opinion.  At 
present  the  strongest  evidence  seems  to  point  to  Sir  Philip  Francis 
(1740-1818),  a  prominent  Whig  politician  and  a  strong  pamphleteer. 
The  arguments  for  and  against  the  authorship  of  Francis  have  been 
summarized  and  examined  by  Sir  Leslie  Stephen  in  the  "  Dictionary  of 
National  Biography  "  under  the  name  of  Francis,  Vol.  XX. 

105  4  "he,  like  an  eagle"  :  "  Coriolanus,"  V,  vi,  115. 

105  15  Essay  on  Marriage  :  no  such  essay  by  Wordsworth  is  at  present 
known  to  exist.  It  would  seem  either  that  "Marriage"  is  a  misprint  for 
some  other  word,  or  that  Hazlitt  was  mistaken  in  the  subject  of  the 
essay  referred  to  by  Coleridge.  Hazlitt  is  probably  recalling  a  conver- 
sation with  Coleridge  in  Shropshire  at  the  beginning  of  1798  (see  "My 
First  Acquaintance  with  Poets,"  p.  175),  at  which  time  a  "  Letter  to  the 
Bishop  of  Llandaff"  (1793)  was  the  only  notable  work  which  Words- 
worth had  published  (Works,  VII,  501). 

105  note  Is  this  the  present  Earl?  James  Maitland,  eighth  earl  of 
Lauderdale  (1759-1839),  succeeded  his  father  in  August,  1789.  See 
Works,  VII,  501. 

106  13  Lord  Clarendon's  (i  608-1 674)  :  "  History  of  the  Rebellion  and 
Civil  Wars  in  England"  (1702-1704). 

106  20  Froissart :  Jean  Froissart  (133S-1410  ?),  French  chronicler  and 
raconteur. 

106  '20  Hollingshed  :  Ralph  Ilolinshed  (died  about  15S0),  "Chronicles 
of  Englande,  Scotlandc,  and  Ireland"  (1577). 

106  20  Stowe :  John  Stow  (1525  ?-i6o5),  "  Summarie  of  Englyshe 
Chronicles"  (1561);  "A   Survey  of  London"  (1598). 

106  20  Fuller's  Worthies  :  Thomas  Fuller  (1608-1661),  "The  History 
of  the  Worthies  of  England"  (1662). 

106  23  A  Wife  for  a  Month  (1623). 

106  24  Thierry  and  Theodoret  (1621). 


NOTES  347 

106  2(5  Thucydides:  the  great  Athenian  historian,  i^orn  in  471  is.c  and 
died  about  401.  Macaulay  regarded  him  as  "the  greatest  historian  that 
ever  lived." 

106  2()  Guicciardini :  Francesco  Guicciardini  (1483-1540),  prominent 
ItaHan  historian. 

106  'JS  Loves  of  Persiles  and  Sigismunda:  the  last  work  of  Cervantes, 
published  in  161 7,  the  year  after  Cervantes's  death. 

106  28  Galatea:  the  first  work  of  Cervantes  (1585),  a  pastoral 
romance. 

106  2'.t  "another  Yarrow":  Yarrow  Unvisited,"  by  Wordsworth.  It 
will  be  remembered  that  Wordsworth  wrote  several  poems  of  which  the 
scene  is  laid  upon  the  banks  of  the  Yarrow. 

ON  A   LANDSCAPE  OF  NICOLAS   POUSSIN 

This  essay  first  appeared  in  the  London  Magazi>ie  for  August,  182 1  ; 
it  was  then  reprinted  as  the  first  essay  in  the  second  volume  of  "Table 
Talk"  (1822). 

Nicolas  Poussin  (i  594-1665)  was  a  celebrated  French  painter.  See 
Hazlitt,  "Notes  of  a  Journey  through  France  and  Italy,"  Works,  Vol.  IX, 
especially  pp.  107-110.  The  large  part  of  Poussin's  best  work  is  pre- 
served in  the  Louvre  Gallery  at  Paris,  with  a  few  good  examples  in  the 
National  Gallery  in  London. 

107  1  "  And  blind  Orion  "  :  Keats,  "  Endymion,"  II,  198  : 

At  this  with  madden'd  stare, 
And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips  he  stood  ; 
Like  old  Decalion  mountain'd  o'er  the  flood, 
Or  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  mom. 

107  13  the  "  grey  dawn  and  the  Pleiades  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  VII, 

373-374- 

107  2G  Sir  Joshua  has  done  him  justice :  "  the  favourite  subjects  of 
Poussin  were  ancient  fables ;  and  no  painter  was  ever  better  qualified 
to  paint  such  subjects,  not  only  from  his  being  eminently  skilled  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  ceremonies,  customs  and  habits  of  the  ancients,  but 
from  his  being  so  well  acquainted  with  the  different  characters  which 
those  who  invented  them  gave  to  their  allegorical  figures." 

For  the  entire  subject  see  Joshua  Reynolds,  "  Discourses,"  V. 

108  :>  "  denote  a  foregone  conclusion  "  :  "  Othello,"  III,  iii. 

108  It  "  take  up  the  isles  as  a  very  little  thing  "  :  Isaiah  xl.  1 5. 

109  (i  "  gives  to  airy  nothing  " :  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  V,  i.  16. 


348  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

110  10  His  Giants  :  these  are  pictures  by  Poussin,  dealing  with  Jupiter, 
Pan,  Bacchus,  and  other  mythological  subjects,  in  the  National  and 
Dulwich  Galleries  in  London  and  in  the  Louvre  in  Paris. 

110  note  Vignuel  de  Marville :  this  passage  is  taken  from  "  Memoirs 
of  the  Life  of  Nicholas  Poussin,"  by  Maria  Graham  (Lady  Callcott) 
(1820),  pp.  35-36. 

110  note  Mr.  West:  Benjamin  ^Yest  (1738-1820),  American  history 
and  portrait  painter,  was  born  at  Springfield,  Pennsylvania.  In  1763  he 
settled  in  London  as  a  historical  painter  and  became  eminently  success- 
ful. On  the  death  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  he  was  elected  his  successor 
as  president  of  the  Royal  Academy,  an  ofiice  which  he  held  for  twenty- 
eight  years.    He  died  in  1820  and  was  buried  in  St.  Paul's,  London. 

111  1,  2  Plague  of  Athens,  the  Deluge  :  both  pictures  are  in  the  Louvre 
Gallery  in  Paris,  Nos.  710  and  739  (see  Ilazlitt,  IX,  491).  A  repetition 
of  the  former  picture,  formerly  in  the  Colonna  Palace  at  Rome,  was 
presented  to  the  National  Gallery  in  1838.  The  proper  title  is  "  Plague 
among  the  Philistines  at  Ashdod"  (No.  165). 

111  19  a  picture  of  Aurora :  "  Cephalus  and  Aurora,"  by  Poussin,  in 
the  National  Gallery  (No.  65). 

11122  Tithonus :  by  the  prayers  of  Eos  (Dawn)  who  loved  him, 
Tithonus  obtained  from  the  gods  immortality,  but  not  eternal  youth,  in 
consequence  of  which  he  completely  shrank  together  in  his  old  age ; 
whence  a  decrepit  old  man  was  proverbially  called  Tithonus.  See 
Tennyson's  poem  of  that  name. 

112  5  Satyrs  and  Bacchantes  :  in  Mr.  Angerstein's  collection  there 
was  a  "  Uance  of  Bacchanals,"  by  Poussin,  now  No.  42  in  the  National 
Gallery,  Works,  IX,  14. 

112  8  "  Leaping  like  wanton  kids  " :  Spenser,  "Faerie  Queene,"  Book  I, 
canto  vi,  stanza  14. 

112  24  picture  of  the  shepherds  :  see  Ilazlitt's  essay,  "  On  the  Progress 
of  Art,"  in  Works,  I,  163.  This  picture,  often  mentioned  by  Ilazlitt,  is 
in  the  Louvre  (No.  734).  It  expressed,  according  to  some,  the  idea  of 
the  shortness  of  life. 

112  27  Et  ego  in  Arcadia  vixi :  this  refers  to  Poussin's  celebrated 
picture  of  some  Arcadian  shepherds  standing  near  a  tomb  and  reading 
with  surprise  this  inscription  upon  it.  The  source  of  the  Latin  remains 
undiscovered.  See  Notes  and  Queries,  sixth  series,  VI,  396,  where  pre- 
ceding references  are  given. 

113  5  "within  the  book  and  volume  of  the  brain  "  :  "Hamlet,"  I,  v,  i. 
113  11   "he    who    knows    of    these    delights":    Milton,   "Sonnet   to 

Mr.  Lawrence  " : 


NOTES  349 

He  who  of  those  dehghls  can  judge,  and  spare 
To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 

113  L'l;  the  Caracci :  usually  spelled  Carracci.  There  were  the  brothers 
Agostino  (155S-1602)  and  Annibalc  (i  560-1609)  and  their  cousin  Lodo- 
vico  (I  555-1619),  all  founders  of  the  Bolognesc  school  of  painting. 

114  o  "Old  Genius"  :  "  Faerie  Queene,"  Book  III,  canto  vi,  stanzas 

31-3-- 

114  15  Blenheim:  see  Works,  IX,  71-75. 

114  10  Mr.  Angerstein:  John  Julius  Angerstein  (i735-i*^-j)'  ""ich 
merchant  and  patron  of  the  fine  arts.  His  collection  of  about  forty 
famous  paintings  became  the  basis  of  the  present  National  Gallery. 
See  "The  Picture  Galleries  in  England,"  Works,  Vol.  IX. 

114 '20  since  the  Louvre  is  stripped:  in  the  twenty  years  after  1793 
great  art  treasures  were  brought  to  the  Louvre  in  consequence  of  the 
successive  French  victories  in  different  parts  of  Europe.  In  181 5  when 
the  allies  took  possession  of  Taris  most  of  these  pictures  were  returned 
to  the  countries  from  which  they  had  come. 

114  22  as  a  rich  jewel  in  his  Iron  Crown :  Napoleon  was  crowned  in 
Paris  on  December  2,  1804.  A  deputation  of  the  republic  of  Lom- 
bardy  came  from  Italy  to  Paris  to  offer  him  the  Iron  Crown  of  Charle- 
magne. It  consisted  of  a  plain  circlet  of  gold  covering  a  ring  of  iron, 
said  to  be  composed  of  the  nails  of  the  Cross.  The  ceremony  took 
place  in  the  cathedral  of  Milan.  Taking  the  Iron  Crown  from  the 
hands  of  the  Archbishop  of  Milan,  Napoleon  placed  it  upon  his  head, 
calling  aloud,  "  Dieu  me  I'a  donnee  ;  gare  a  qui  la  touche,"  which  ex- 
pression became  the  legend  of  the  Order  of  the  Iron  Crown,  founded 
by  the  Emperor  to  commemorate  the  event.  See  Ilazlitt,  "Life  of 
Napoleon,"  chap,  xxxiv.  See  also  Chambers,  "  Book  of  Days,"  i,  673. 
Napoleon  died  at  Longwood  on  the  island  of  St.  Helena  on  May  5, 
1821. 

ON  THE  FEAR  OF   DEATH 

This  essay  originally  appeared  as  the  last  (No.  XVII)  of  the  second 
volume  of  "Table  Talk"  (1S22). 

115  1  "And  our  little  life":  "The  Tempest,"  IV,  i,  156;  a  part 
of  the  famous  passage  on  the  monument  to  Shakspere  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

115  10  Bickerstaff :  see  "On  Periodical  Essayists,"  p.  14. 

115  1:5  the  Globe  :  a  favorite  coffeehouse  of  Goldsmith,  in  Fleet  Street. 
See  Forster,  "  Life  of  Goldsmith,"  chap,  xvii,  p.  270.  See  also  Timbs, 
"  Clubs  and  Club  Life  in  London,"  p.  404. 


350  SELECTIONS   FROM  HAZLITT 

115  15  Sterne  brought  out  the  volumes:  the  first  two  volumes  of  "Tris- 
tram Shandy"  appeared  in  1760,  the  third  and  fourth  in  1761,  the  fifth 
and  sixth  in  1762,  the  seventh  and  eighth  in  1765,  and  the  last  in  1767. 

115  20  "'  gorge  rises  at  "  :  "  Hamlet,"  V,  i,  206. 

116  6  perdus:  lost,  invisible. 

116  14  stone  edsles  of  that  old  Temple  church:  Ilazlitt  refers  to  the 
nine  monuments  of  Templars  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries, 
consisting  of  recumbent  figures  in  full  armor  in  the  Temple  Church  in 
London. 

116  18  Holy  War:  the  wars  of  the  Crusaders.  It  used  to  be  thought 
that  the  crossing  of  the  legs  of  the  recumbent  figures  of  knights  in  the 
churches,  as  in  the  Temple  Church,  was  a  sign  that  the  knights  buried 
beneath  had  taken  part  in  the  Crusades. 

117  3  "The  wars  we  well  remember":  "Faerie  Queene,"  Book  II, 
canto  ix,  stanza  56. 

117  00  "  The  present  eye  "  :  "  Troilus  and  Cressida,"  III,  iii,  iSo. 

118  7  "Oh!  thou  strong  heart!":  Webster,  "The  White  Devil,  or 
Vittoria  Corombona,"  V,  iii,  96  (Mermaid  edition). 

118  29  the  downfall  of  the  Bourbons :  the  noble  family  of  Bourbon 
from  which  so  many  European  kings  have  sprung  took  its  name  from 
a  district  in  France  called  Bourbonnais.  The  family  dates  from  the 
ninth  century. 

118  32  No  young  man  ever  thinks  :  Ilazlitt  attributes  this  remark 
to  his  brother  John,  the  painter. 

119  ()  "This  sensible  warm  motion":  "Measure  for  Measure,"  III, 
i,  120. 

119  >S  "turn  to  withered,  weak,  and  grey"  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  XI,  540. 
119  27  "  gone  into  the  wastes  of  time  "  :   Shakspere,  Sonnet  XII : 

That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must  go. 

119  note   Voung,  "  Night  Thoughts,"  I,  424. 

120  note  Schiller's  Don  Carlos  (17S7)  :  the  Marquis,  the  impersona- 
tion of  all  that  Schiller  considers  most  noble  in  man,  dies  in  the  first 
scene  of  Act  V. 

121  7  Zanetto,  lascia:  Rousseau,  "  Confessions,"  Partie  II,  Livre  VII 

(1743-1744)- 

121  1.")  I  have  never  seen  death  but  once  :  "  Memoirs  of  William  Haz- 
litt,"  I,  170.  This  refers  to  the  first  son  of  William  Ilazlitt,  who  was  born 
January  1 5,  1809,  and  died  on  the  fifth  of  July  of  the  same  year.  Compare 
the  passage  in  De  Quincey's  "  Autobiography,"  describing  his  first  sight 
of  death.  "  Selections  from  De  Quincey  "  (edited  by  Turk),  pp.  6  seq. 


NOTES  351 

121  26  at  my  breast :  a  paragraph  which  was  in  the  manuscript  of  the 
essay  is  here  omitted  from  the  editions  in  Hazlitt's  life-time : 

I  did  not  see  my  father  after  he  was  dead,  but  I  saw  Death  shake  him  by  the 
palsied  hand  and  stare  him  in  the  face.  He  made  as  good  an  end  as  Falstaff ; 
though  different,  as  became  him.  After  repeating  the  name  of  his  R[edeemer] 
often,  he  took  my  mother's  hand,  and,  looking  up,  put  it  in  my  sister's,  and  so 
expired.  There  was  something  graceful  and  gracious  in  his  nature,  which  showed 
itself  in  his  last  act. 

12127  Chantry's  monument:  Sir  Francis  Chantry  (1782-1841),  dis- 
tinguished English  sculptor.  The  monument  mentioned  here  is  of  two 
children  asleep  in  each  other's  arms.  It  forms  a  monumental  design  in 
Lichfield  Cathedral  and  is  much  admired. 

122  lU  '"  Still  from  the  tomb  "  :  Gray,  "  Elegy,"  11.  91-92  : 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

122  12  Tucker's  Light  of  Nature  Pursued:  a  miscellany,  "The  Light 
of  Nature  Followed"  ( 176S-1 778),  by  Abraham  Tucker  (i 705-1 774),  pub- 
lished under  the  name  of  Edward  Search.  Hazlitt's  abridgment  of  this 
book  was  published  in  1S07. 

123  32  "  A  little  rule  "  :   Uyer,  "  Grongar  Hill,"  11.  89-92  : 

A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day, 
Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Betwixt  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

124  2  "  A  great  man's  memory  "  :  "Hamlet,"  IH,  ii,  139. 

125  4  Romeo  runs  his  "seasick,  weary  bark"  :  "  Romeo  and  Juliet," 
V,  iii,  I  iS. 

126  Ki  as  Pierre  says :  Otway,  "  Venice  Preserved,"  IV,  ii: 

And  carr)'  up  and  down  this  cursed  city, 

A  discontented  and  repining  spirit, 

Burdensome  to  itself,  a  few  years  longer  ; 

To  lose  it,  may  be,  at  last  in  a  lewd  quarrel 

For  some  new  friend,  treacherous  and  false  as  thou  art ! 

125  34  Dr.  Johnson  was  an  instance :  Koswell  gives  us  repeated 
examples  of  the  fear  of  death,  which  Johnson  seems  to  have  had  to  an 
uncommon  degree.  See  the  following  interesting  references  in  Bos- 
well's  "Life  "  (edited  by  Birkbeck  Hill),  II,  106;  111,153,295;  IV,  253 
(n.  4),  259.  278,  280,  289,  299-300,  366,  394,  399  ;  V,  380.  Rousseau  said, 
"  I  am  not  afraid  of  death  but  I  dread  pain." 


352  SELECTIONS   FROM  HAZLITT 


ON  LIVING  TO  ONE'S-SELF 

This  essay  was  written  at  Winterslow  Hut,  January  iS  and  19,  1821, 
and  first  appeared  as  No.  X  in  Vol.  I  of  "Table  Talk"  (1821). 

127  1  "Remote,  unfriended"  :  Goldsmith,  "The  Traveller,"  1.  i. 

127  K)  Winterslow  :  after  their  marriage  Ilazlitt  and  his  wife  went  to 
Winterslow  to  live.  Mrs.  Hazlitt  had  inherited  some  cottages  in  this 
little  village  about  seven  miles  from  Salisbury  on  the  Andover  road. 
Here  their  first  son,  to  be  called  William,  was  born  January  15,  1809 
and  died  the  following  July.  After  this  misfortune  the  Ilazlitts  invited 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  Martin  Burney,  and  Colonel  Phillips  to  Win- 
terslow to  spend  a  few  weeks.  The  fourteenth  of  July  was  set  for  the  visit, 
but  on  account  of  the  illness  of  Mary  Lamb,  the  trip  was  postponed 
until  the  following  October.  There  were  many  pleasant  days  together, 
as  we  must  suppose  from  the  letters  of  Mary  Lamb  written  at  that  time. 
In  the  July  of  the  next  year  the  Lambs  again  visited  the  Ilazlitts  at  Win- 
terslow and  Ilazlitt  acted  as  guide  to  the  Lambs  to  Oxford  and  Blenheim 
on  their  return  to  London.  Charles  Lamb  has  written  of  this  in  his 
"Oxford  in  the  Vacation"  ("Essays  of  Elia").  See  also  "Memoirs  of 
Hazlitt,"  I,  16S-175;  also  II,  229. 

After  1S19  Ilazlitt  spent  much  of  his  time  at  Winterslow  Hut,  where 
many  of  his  essays  were  written  ("Memoirs,"  II,  16);  see  HazHtt, 
"On  the  Conversation  of  Authors,"  Works,  VII,  24  ff. 

The  following  selection  is  from  the  preface  to  "  Winterslow :  Essays 
and  Characters  Written  there  by  William  Hazlitt.  Collected  by  his  Son  " 
(1850): 


Winterslow  is  a  villaf^c  of  Wiltshire,  between  .'^alisbur}-  and  Andover,  where 
my  father,  during  a  considerable  portion  of  his  life,  spent  several  months  of  each 
year,  latterly,  at  an  ancient  inn  on  the  great  western  road,  called  Winterslow 
Hut.  ()ne  of  his  chief  attractions  hither  were  the  noble  woods  of  Tytherleigh  or 
Tudorleigh,  round  Norman  Court.  .  .  .  Another  feature  was  Clarendon  Wood 
—  whence  the  noble  family  of  Clarendon  derived  their  title.  ...  In  another 
direction,  within  easy  distance,  gleams  Stonehengc,  visited  by  my  father,  less 
perhaps  for  its  historical  associations  than  for  its  appeal  to  the  imagination.  .  .  . 
At  no  great  distance,  in  another  direction,  are  the  fine  pictures  of  Lord  Rednor 
and  somewhat  further  those  of  Wilton  House.  But  the  chief  happiness  was  the 
thorough  quiet  of  the  place,  the  sole  interruption  of  which  was  the  passage,  to 
and  fro,  of  the  London  mails.  .  .  .  Among  these  [some  London  friend,s],  dearly 
loved  and  honoured  there  as  everywhere  else.  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  paid  us 
frequent  visits,  rambling  about  all  tlic  time,  thorough  Londoners  in  a  thoroughly 
country  place,  dclightetl  and  wondering  and  wondered  at. 


NOTES  353 

127  17  "While    Heav'n's    chancel-vault":    Keats,    "Hyperion,"    II, 

When  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve, 
In  dull  November,  and  their  chancel-vault, 
The  Heaven  itself,  is  blinded  throughout  night. 

127  23  Lady  G.:  Lady  Grandison  in  "  Sir  Charles  Grandison,"  by 
Samuel  Richardson. 

139  Ki  "  The  man  whose  eye  "  :  Wordsworth,  "  Lines  left  upon  a  Seat 
in  a  Yew-tree,"  11.  55-59- 

129  i!3  "  To  see  the  children  "  :  Wordsworth,  "  Intimations  of  Immor- 
tality," 11.  1 70-171. 

130  ()  Nicholson :  William  Nicholson  (1753-1S15),  man  of  science 
and  inventor.  Besides  his  invention  of  many  mathematical  instruments, 
he  wrote  books  on  natural  philosophy. 

130  y  "never  ending,  still  beginning":  IJryden,  "Alexander's 
Feast,"  1.  202. 

130  11  "the  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky":  Wordsworth,  "Peter 
Bell,"  1.  265. 

131  12  Goldsmith :  "  Ilazlitt  had  probably  read  the  story  in  Northcote's 
'Life  of  Iveynolds,'  where  the  scene  is  laid  at  Antwerp.  The  incident 
really  occurred  at  Lisle  while  Goldsmith  was  on  his  way  to  Paris  with 
the  Ilornecks.  We  have  Miss  Ilorneck's  authority  for  believing  that 
the  story  as  told  by  Northcote  and  here  repeated  by  Ilazlitt  is  much 
exaggerated.  See  Prior,  'Life  of  Goldsmith,'  II,  290-291;  Forster, 
'Life  and  Times  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,'  II,  217;  Boswell,  'Life  of 
Johnson'  (edited  by  Hill),  I,  414  and  note."  See  Works,  VI,  477- 
478. 

131  17  I  have  seen  a  celebrated  talker  :  was  this  Coleridge  ? 
131  24  "  Whose  top  to  climb  "  :  "  Cymbeline,"  III,  iii,  47. 

131  ."()  When  Buonaparte  got  into  his  carriage:  see  Ilazlitt,  "  Life  of 
Napoleon,"  chaps,  xliii  and  xliv. 

132  7  "  the  insolence  of  office  "  :  "  llamlet,"  III,  i,  73. 
132  I'.i  "  after  the  heart-aches  "  :  ibid.  Ill,  i,  62. 

132  2'.t  "a  mouse":  Webster,  "  The  Duchess  of  Malii,"  IV,  ii,  p.  207 
(Mermaid  edition). 

133  12  says  Rousseau  :  see  "  La  Nouvclle  Ileloise,"  Partie  V,  Lettre 
III.  This  letter  of  Rousseau  is  especially  interesting  and  seems  to 
have  been  much  liked  by   Ilazlitt. 

133  1:5  A  country-gentleman  near  Taunton :  Taunton  is  a  few  miles 
south  of  Bristol.  Ilazlitt  had  been  in  Bristol  in  179S  on  his  visit  to 
Coleridge  and  Wordsworth. 


354  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

133  17  "Some  demon  whisper'd "  :  Tope,  "Moral  Essays,"  IV,  i6. 
The  line  in  Pope  is  : 

Some  demon  whisper'd.   Visto  !  have  a  taste. 

133  18  A  little  Wilson :  a  picture  by  Wilson,  the  painter  (see  above, 

P-  337)- 

133  22  Canaletti:  Antonio  Canale  or  Canaletto  (i  697-1 768),  the  Ve- 
netian painter,  or  Bernardo  Bellotto  (1724  ?-i78o),  his  nephew. 

134  14  "  virgined  it  e'er  since"  :  "  Coriolanus,"  V,  iii,  48. 

134  15  Hogarth :  William  Hogarth  (1697-1764),  celebrated  English 
painter  and  especially  famous  for  his  realistic  pictures  of  eighteenth- 
century  life  and  manners.  Hogarth  is  often  mentioned  by  Hazlitt  (see 
Works,  Vol.  VIII;  also  Thackeray's  "  EngUsh  Humourists  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century"). 

134  15  Wilkie:  Sir  David  Wilkie  (1775-1814),  Scottish  genre  painter. 
See  Hazlitt's  comparison  of  Hogarth  and  Wilkie  in  his  "Comic  Writers," 
Lecture  VII,  Works,  Vol.  VIII. 

134  17  the  Clandestine  Marriage  :  a  comedy  by  George  Colman,  the 
elder,  and  David  Garrick.    It  was  first  produced  in  1766. 

134  30  "baby  of  a  girl  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  III,  iv,  106. 

134  33  "With  what  a  waving  air":  B.  W.  Procter,  "  Mirandola," 
Act  I,  p.  20  (edition  of  1S21). 

135  7  "The  fly  that  sips":  Gay,  "The  Beggar's  Opera,"  II,  ii. 
From  one  of  Macheath's  songs. 

135  17  yet  the  tie  is  for  life  :  Hazlitt's  own  experience  does  not  seem 
quite  consistent  with  this  remark ;  but  this  essay  was  written  before  he 
had  succeeded  in  untying  it ;  his  divorce  was  granted  in  1822. 

135  21  "  Like  life  and  death  "  :   Lamb,  "John  Woodvil,"  II,  ii : 

Better  the  dead  were  gather'd  to  the  dead. 
Than  death  and  life  in  disproportion  meet. 

135  24  "For  either"  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  X,  898-908. 

136  2  the  madman  in  Don  Quixote  :  conclusion  of  the  story  of  the  shep- 
herdess Marcclla  :  "  This  Chrysostome  .  .  .  loved  well  and  was  hated, 
he  adored  and  was  disdained,  he  begged  pity  of  cruelty  itself ;  he  strove 
to  move  obdurate  marble ;  pursued  the  winds ;  made  his  moans  to  soli- 
tary deserts,"  etc.  (Part  I,  chap.  xiii). 

136  11  "I  have  not  loved  the  world":  Byron,  "  Childe  Harold," 
canto  iii,  stanzas   113-114. 

136  note  Shenstone  and  Gray  :  "  Gray  says  the  same  thing  in  a  letter 
to  Norton  Nicholls,  June  24,  1769  (Works,  edited  by  Gosse,  III,  344). 


NOTES  35  5 

...  As  to  Gray's  dislike  to  having  his  portrait  prefixed  to  his  works, 
see  his  letter  to  Horace  Walpole,  January,  1753  (Works,  edited  by 
Gosse,  II,  233)."    See  Works,  VI,  478. 

137  1  as  Ben  Jonson  :  examples  of  prologues  where  Jonson  scolded  his 
audience  are  those  preceding  "  Volpone,  the  Fox  "  and  "  The  Poetaster." 

137  9  the  man  in  the  Hartz  mountains :  the  well-known  mirage  of  the 
Brocken.    See  De  Quincey,  "  Spectre  of  the  Brocken." 

138  20  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews :  for  an  account  of  these 
magazines  see  introduction  to  L.  E.  Gates,  "  Selections  from  Francis 
Jeffrey,"  and  Oliver  Elton,  "A  Survey  of  English  Literature,  1780- 
1830,"  I,  387  ff. 

138  22  Taylor  and  Hessey :  the  publishers  of  "  Characters  of 
Shakespear's  Plays  "  (1817).  See  E.  V.  Lucas,  "  Life  of  Charles  Lamb," 
11,  36-37  : 

Taylor  and  Hessey  had  a  fair  name  as  publishers,  having  issued  among  other 
works  the  poems  of  Keats.  .  .  .  Not  only  through  want  of  imagination,  but  also 
by  a  policy  of  penuriousness,  Taylor  in  time  ruined  this  most  promising  property. 
His  partner,  James  Augustus  Hessey  (1785-1S70),  who  had  less  part  in  Lamb's 
life,  was  the  father  of  the  late  Archdeacon  Hessey,  for  whom  and  his  brother, 
when  at  school,  Lamb  once  wrote  epigrams.    Keats  called  him  ''  Mistessy." 

The  review  appeared  January,  1818.  See  Henley's  introduction  to 
Hazlitt  (Works,  Vol.  I) : 

Both  the  characters  and  the  English  Poets  [181S]  were  reviewed  by  Gifford  in 
the  Qiiaficrly.  The  style  of  these  ''  reviews  "  is  abject :  the  inspiration  venal ;  the 
matter  the  very  dirt  of  the  mind.  Gifford  hated  Hazlitt  for  his  politics,  and  set 
out  to  wither  Hazlitt's  repute  as  a  man  of  letters.  For  the  tremendous  reprisal 
with  which  he  was  visited,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  Letter  to  WtlUam  Clif- 
ford, Esq.  If  he  finds  it  over-savage, —  probably,  being  of  to-day,  he  will,—  let  him 
turn  to  his  Quarterly,  and  consider,  if  he  have  the  stomach,  Gifford  and  the 
matter  of  offence. 

138  30  the  Cockney  School :  according  to  the  New  English  Dictionary, 
a  cockney  is  one  born  in  the  city  of  London,  or,  as  the  old  phrase  was, 
"  one  born  within  the  sound  of  Bow  Bells."  The  term  is  particularly 
used  to  connote  the  characteristics  in  which  the  born  Londoner  is 
inferior  to  other  Englishmen.  The  Cockney  School  was  a  nickname 
for  a  set  of  nineteenth-century  writers  belonging  to  London  of  whom 
Leigh  Hunt  was  usually  regarded  as  the  best  representative.  See 
Lockhart's  article  on  the  subject  in  Blacku<oods,  October  28,  1817  ; 
see  also  Andrew  Lang's  "  Life  and  Letters  of  John  Gibson  Lockhart." 

139  1  Poor  Keats :  this  is  a  reference  to  the  opinion  formerly  widely 
prevalent  that  the  untimely  death  of  Keats  was  caused  by  the  bitter 


356  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

reviews  of  his  poetry.  The  articles  especially  insulting  were  in  Black- 
woods,  August,  i8iS,  probably  by  Lockhart,  and  in  the  Quarterly,  by 
J.  W.  Croker,  for  April,  but  not  published  till  September,  1818. 

139  3  "A  bud  bit  "  :  '"  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  I,  i,  137-139. 

139  10  "  A  huge-sized  monster  "  :  "  Troilus  and  Cressida,"  III,  iii,  147  : 

A  great-sized  monster  of  ingratitudes. 

139  31  Bub  Doddington :  George  Bubb  Doddington  (1691-1762).  See 
"  The  Diary  of  the  Late  George  Bubb  Doddington,  Baron  of  Melcombe 
Regis";  from  March  8,  1748-1749,  to  February  6,  1761,  now  first  pub- 
lished by  Henry  Penruddocke  Wyndham  (1784). 

140  2  talk  of  the  Scotch  Novels  :  this  essay  was  written  in  1821  ; 
"  Waverley,"  the  first  of  Scott's  novels,  had  appeared  in   1814. 

140  '25  Bolingbroke's  Reflections  on  Exile  :  this  passage  is  taken  from 
perhaps  his  most  famous  work.  See  Works,  I,  107-108  (edition  of  1754). 


ON   THE  PAST  AND   FUTURE 

This  essay  first  appeared  in  the  first  volume  of  "Table  Talk"  (1821). 

142  8  When  Sterne:  "  Sentimental  Journey,"   Character  —  Versailles. 

143  1!)  "Those  joys  are  lodg'd "  :  the  source  of  this  quotation  is 
unknown. 

144  12  '"  The  thoughts  of  which"  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  IX,  912  : 

Yet  loss  of  thee 
Would  never  from  my  heart. 

144  20  "What  though  the  radiance":  Wordsworth,  "Intimations  of 
Immortality,"  11.  i79seq.  See  Hazlitt's  essay  on  Wordsworth  in  "  Spirit 
of  the  Age,"  Works,  IV,  270. 

144  2(5  "  retrace  its  footsteps  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  XI,  329  : 

In  yonder  nether  world  where  shall  I  seek 
Her  bright  appearance,  or  footsteps  trace. 

144  28  "And  see  how  dark":  Wordsworth's  "Lines  written  while 
sailing  in  a  Boat  at  l'"vening." 

145  4  the  last  of  the  Reveries:  these  were  written  in  1775-1776. 
Lord  Morley  calls  them  the  most  perfect  of  Rousseau's  compositions. 
Madame  de  Warens  was  the  confidante  of  Rousseau.  His  first  inter- 
view with  her  on  the  2rst  of  March,  1728,  stamped  itself  forever  on 
Rousseau's  mind.  When  he  says  in  the  French  sentence  quoted  by  Haz- 
litt  that  it  has  beeny?//i'  years  since  he  first  saw  Madame  de  Warens,  a 
comparison  will  show  that,  strictly  speaking,  it  was  only  about  forty-eight. 


NOTES  357 

145  19  " all  the  life  of  life  was  flown "  :  llurns,  "Lament  for  (lloncairn"  : 
For  a'  ihc  life  of  life  is  dead. 

145  22  lone  brow  of  Norman  Court :  sec  "  Memoirs,"  II,  14-15  : 

It  was  before  his  final  settlement  at  W'intcrslow  that  he  became  in  some  man- 
ner acquainted  with  the  Windhams  of  Norman  Court,  near  Salisbury.  It  was  the 
I  lonorable  Charles  Windham  who  lived  there  at  that  time  with  an  only  daughter, 
who  was  his  heiress. 

At  one  time  Charles  Windham  offered  to  place  at  ITazlitt's  disposal 
an  apartment  or  two  at  Norman  Court.  This  has  been  made  very  clear 
l:)y  Mr.  Rees  in  A^olcs  and  Queries,  tenth  series,  X,  63. 

146  1!)  "'  running  through  the  story  "  :  "  Othello,"  I,  iii,  175  ff. 

147  14  PosthcEC  meminisse  juvabit :  Virgil,  /Kneid,  I,  203. 

148  20  "  Calm  contemplation  "  :  Wordsworth,  "  Laodamia,"  1.  72  : 

Calm  pleasures  there  abide  —  majestic  pains. 

149  18  "catch  glimpses  "  :  Wordsworth's  Sonnet,  "The  World  is  too 
much  with  us  "  : 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn. 

149  22  "I  also  was  an  Arcadian":  see  p.  112  and  note;  see  N'otes 
and  Queries,  fourth  series,  I,  509,  561,  &c. 

To  one  of  his  poems  Stevenson  gave  the  title,  "  Et  tu  in  Arcadia 
Vixisti." 

149  2r>  Que  pen  de  chose:  Voltaire,  "  I>ctter  to  Madame  du  Deffand," 
r)ctobcr  13,  1759.  Marquise  du  Deffand  was  a  distinguished  French 
woman  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  friend  of  Voltaire,  D'Alembert, 
and  Horace  Walpole. 

149  32  Respice  finem :  a  writer  in  A'otes  auif  Queries,  fifth  series,  VI, 
313,  traces  this  Latin  phrase  back  to  a  fable  in  "  Fabulae  Variorum 
Auctorum." 

151  5  "the  high  endeavour"  :  Cowper,  "  The  Task,"  V,  901. 

151  ID  "Oh  God!  methinks"  :   "3  Henry  VI,"  II,  v,  21  f. 

152  10  "the  tear  forgot":  Gray,  "On  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton 
College,"  stanza  5. 

153  lit  it  is  recorded  by  Spence  :  "Anecdotes,  Observations,  and  Char- 
acters of  liooks  and  Men  collected  from  the  Conversation  of  Mr.  Tope," 
by  Joseph  Spence  (edition  of  1S5S),  pp.  S7-S8  : 

We  almost  always  do  better  the  second  half  hour  than  the  first,  because  we 
grow  warmer  and  warmer  ;  to  such  a  degree  at  last,  that  when  I  have  improviso'd 
a  whole  evening,  I  can  never  get  a  wink  of  sleep  all  the  niglit  after. 


;58  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 


ON   P'AMILIAR  STYLE 

This  was  the  twenty-fourth  essay  of  "  Table  Talk." 

In  reading  this  essay  and  rereading  it,  one  has  the  feeling  that  here 
are  some  of  the  best  words  ever  written  on  the  subject  and  written  by 
a  man  who  had  thought  of  style  and  what  it  means.  It  is  interesting  to 
read  in  connection  with  this  essay  The  Genteel  Style  of  Writing,  in 
Lamb's  "  The  Last  Essays  of  Elia." 

156  note  Marlow's  lines:  Christopher  Marlowe  (i 564-1 593),  poet 
and  dramatist. 

157  18  I  never  invented :  Ilazlitt's  style  is  remarkable  for  its  purity  of 
diction.  Probably  he  never  used  more  than  a  half  dozen  words  about 
the  purity  of  which  there  was  any  question,  and  in  each  of  those  cases 
he  makes  a  careful  note  of  his  usage. 

158  31  Spanish  pieces  of  eight :  the  Spanish  "  dollar,"  or  "  piastre  " 
(pieza  de  a  ocho).  Does  one  ever  forget  this  coin  after  reading 
Stevenson's  "  Treasure   Island  "  .' 

159  19  Burton  :  these  are  the  seventeenth-century  authors  that  Lamb 
seemed  to  like  best  and  imitated.  Hazlitt's  comment  on  the  quaint 
imitation  is  most  apt.  Compare  what  Lamb  himself  says  about  this 
peculiarity  of  his  style  in  the  preface  to  the  "  Last  Essays." 

159  24  Elia :  Lamb's  first  Elia  essay  appeared  in  the  London  Maga- 
zine for  August,  1820,  with  the  title,  "Recollections  of  the  South-Sea 
House."  The  history  of  Lamb's  pseudonym  is  told  in  a  letter  to  John 
Taylor,  the  publisher,  in  July,  1S21  : 

Having  a  brother  now  there  [at  the  South-Sea  House]  and  doubting  how  he 
might  retort  certain  descriptions  in  it,  clapt  down  the  name  of  Elia  to  it,  which 
passed  off  pretty  well,  for  Elia  himself  added  the  function  of  an  author  to  that  of 
a  scrivener,  like  myself.  ...  I  went  the  other  day  (not  having  seen  him  [Elia] 
for  the  year)  to  laugh  over  with  him  at  my  usurpation  of  his  name,  and  found 
him  alas !  no  more  than  a  name,  for  he  died  of  consumption  eleven  months  ago 
and  I  knew  not  of  it.  So  the  name  has  fairly  devolved  to  me,  I  think,  and  't  is 
all  he  has  left  me. 

Mr.  Lucas  adds  in  a  note : 

Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke  records  in  a  marginal  note  to  her  copy  of  Procter's 
"  Memoirs  "  (which  was  reccnUy  lent  to  me)  that  Lamb  once  remarked  that '"  Elia  " 
formed  an  anagram  of  "a  lie." 

Sec  the  account  in  Lucas,  "  Life  of  T>amb,"  II,  42  ff. 
159  29  "A  well   of   native   English":    Spenser,    "Faerie    Queene," 
l^ook  IV,  canto  ii,  stanza  32  : 


NOTES  359 

Dan  Chaucer,  well  of  English  undefyled, 

On  Fame's  etemall  beadroll  worthie  to  be  fyled. 

159  32  Erasmus's  Colloquies:  Desiderius  Erasmus  (1466-1536).  His 
"  Colloquia"  (1524)  are  a  series  of  dialogues  written  first  for  pupils  and 
afterwards  expanded  into  lively  conversations  on  the  topics  of  the  day. 
In  the  sixteenth  century  these  were  read  in  the  schools  in  England.  See 
F.  Seebohm,  "  Oxford  Reformers." 

160  5  "What  do  you  read?  "  :  "  Hamlet,"  II,  ii,  193. 

160  23  Sermo  humi  obrepens:  Horace,  "  Epistles,"  II,  i,  250-251  : 

Nee  sermones  ego  mallem 
Repentes  per  humum  quam  res  componere  gestas. 

161  1  Ancient  Pistol:  in  Shakspere's  "Merry  Wives,"  "Henry  IV," 
and  "  Henry  V." 

161  5  "'  That  strut  and  fret"  :  "  Macbeth,"  V,  v,  25. 

161  9  "'  And  on  their  pens  "  :  Waller  and  Glover  suggest  as  the  source 
of  this  quotation,  "  Paradise  Lost,"  IV,  988  : 

And  on  his  crest 
Sat  Horror  plumed. 

162  27  "It  smiled,  and  it  was  cold  !  "  :  Cowper,  "  The  Task,"  V,  173- 

176: 

'T  was  transient  in  its  nature,  as  in  show 
'T  was  durable :  as  worthless  as  it  seemed 
Intrinsically  precious  ;  to  the  foot 
Treacherous  and  false  :  it  smiled,  and  it  was  cold. 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY 

This  delightful  essay  was  first  published  in  the  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine for  1822  (IV,  73).  The  reader  will  instantly  recall  that  more 
recent  essay  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  "  Walking  Tours,"  which  was 
evidently  inspired  by  the  Hazlitt  essay.  Compare  also  the  spirit  of 
Stevenson's  essay,  "  An  Apology  for  Idlers,"  with  Hazlitt's  passage  on 
idlers  at  school,  in  Works,  VI,  72.  The  sympathy  between  these  two 
writers  is  noteworthy,  as  may  be  seen  by  a  casual  glance  at  some  of 
the  titles  of  their  essays.  Stevenson's  plan  to  write  a  life  of  Hazlitt  is 
apparent  from  a  part  of  his  letter  to  his  friend,  P.  G.  Hamerton : 

I  am  in  treaty  with  Bentley  for  a  life  of  Hazlitt.  I  hope  it  will  not  fall  through, 
as  I  love  the  object,  and  appear  to  have  found  a  publisher  who  loves  it  also. 
That  I  think  makes  things  more  pleasant.  You  know  I  am  a  fer\-ent  Hazlittite,  I 
mean  regarding  him  as  the  English  writer  who  has  had  the  scantiest  justice. 


360  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

Besides  which,  I  am  anxious  to  write  a  biography  ;  really  if  I  understand  myself 
in  quest  of  profit,  I  thinli  it  must  be  good  to  live  with  another  man  from  birth 
to  death. —  "Letters"  (edited   by  Colvin),  I,  225-226. 

Why  this  project  was  not  carried  out  is  not  known. 
It  is  interesting  also  to  find  in  Rousseau  such  enthusiastic  praise  of 
walking : 

Never  did  I  think  so  much,  exist  so  much,  be  myself  so  much,  as  in  the 
journeys  I  have  made  alone  and  on  foot.  The  sight  of  the  country,  the  succession 
of  agreeable  views,  open  air,  good  appetite,  the  freedom  of  the  alehouse,  the 
absence  of  everything  that  could  make  me-  feel  dependence  or  recall  me  to  my 
situation  —  all  this  sets  my  mind  free,  gives  me  greater  boldness  of  thought. 
When  I  came  to  a  place  I  only  thought  of  eating,  and  when  I  left  it  I  only 
thought  of  walking.  —  ''  Confessions,"  IV,  279  ff. 

163  5  "The   fields    his  study":     Bloomfield,   "The  Farmer's  Boy," 
S/^;-///-,  31. 
163  14  "  a  friend  in  my  retreat  "  :  Cowper,  "  Retirement,"  11.  741-742. 
163  22  "May  plume  her  feathers  "  :   Milton,  "  Comus,"  11.  378  ff. 

163  27  in  a  Tilbury  :  a  gig  or  two-wheeled  carriage  without  a  top.  It 
was  named  for  the  inventor,  a  coach  builder  of  the  early  nineteenth 
century. 

164  S  sunken  wrack  :  "  Henry  V,"  I,  ii,  165. 

164  15  "leave  me  to  my  repose!":  the  refrain  of  the  Prophetess 
in  Gray,  "  The  Descent  of  Odin."  The  line  is  quoted  by  Burke  in 
"Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord"  (Works,  Bohn  edition,  V,   112): 

If  all  revolutionists  were  not  proof  against  all  caution,  I  should  recommend  it 
to  their  consideration,  that  no  persons  were  ever  known  in  history,  either  sacred 
or  profane,  to  vex  the  sepulchre,  and  by  their  sorceries  to  call  up  the  prophetic 
dead,  with  any  other  event  than  the  prediction  of  their  own  disastrous  fate  — 
"  Leave  me,  oh  leave  me  to  repose." 

164  2!)  "  Out  upon  such  half-faced  fellowship  " :  "1  Henry  IV,"  L  iii,  208. 

165  2  "Let  me  have  a  companion":    Stevenson,  "  Walking  Tours." 

166  .S  "  give  it  an  understanding  "  :  "  Hamlet,"  I,  ii,  250. 

166  H  My  old  friend  C — :    Coleridge.    See   the   essay,   "My    First 

Acquaintance  with  Poets,"  p.  175;  see  also  Introduction,  p.  xvi. 

166  12  "He  talked  far  above  singing":  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
"  Philaster,"  V,  5  : 

I  did  hear  you  talk  far  above  singing. 

166  1<;  "  that  fine  madness  "  :   1  )rayton,  "  Censure  of  Poets  " : 

I'-or  that  fine  madness  still  he  did  retain. 
Which  rightly  should  possess  a  Poet's  brain. 


NOTES  361 

166  20  "Here  be  woods":  "The  Faithful  ShephLMcless "  (1609),  by 
John  Fletcher  (i 579-1625),  I,  iii,  27-43. 

167  8  L ■:   Lamb.    See  Hazlitt's  splendid  characterization  of  Lamb 

in  "  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  Works,  IV,  362  ff. 

167  20  "  take  one's  ease  "  :  "  i  Henry  IV,"  III,  iii,  93  : 

Falstaff.  Shall  not  I  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn,  but  I  shall  have  my  pocket 
picked  ? 

167  27  "The  cups  that  cheer":  Cowper,  "The  Task,"  IV,  39-40. 

167  oO  Sancho  :  Sancho  Panza,  "  the  round,  selfish  and  self-important " 
squire  of  Don  Quixote  in  Cervantes's  romance  of  that  name.  The 
reference  here  is  to  "  Don  Quixote,"  Tart  II,  chap.  xlix. 

168  1  Prociil:  this  passage  is  quoted  often  by  Hazlitt.    The  complete 

lines  are : 

"  Procul  o,  procul  este,  profani," 
Conclamat  vates,  "totoque  absistite  luco."  yKneid,  VI,  25S. 

"  Retire  hence,  retire,  ye  profane,  and  quit  entirely  the  sacred  grove." 

This  was  the  regular  warning  in  religious  ceremonies  to  the  impure 
or  uninitiated  to  keep  aloof,  lest  the  ceremony  be  defiled. 
168  21  "  unhoused  free  condition"  :  "  Othello,"  I,  ii,  26. 

168  2:?  "  lord  of  one's  self":  Dryden,  "To  my  Ilonour'd  Kinsman, 
John  Dridcn,"  1.  18  : 

Lord  of  your  self,  uncumber'd  with  a  Wife. 

169  10  St.  Neot's  :  a  town  near  Peterborough.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  Hazlitt  had  walked  into  this  part  of  the  country  some  time  near 
1796.  See  "The  Pictures  at  Burleigh  House,"  Works,  IX,  63.  Also 
see  Introduction,  p.  xv. 

169  11  Gribelin's  engravings  of  the  Cartoons:  in  1707  Gribelin  com- 
pleted a  set  of  seven  small  plates  of  the  cartoons  of  Raphael  with  a  title- 
page  composed  of  a  sectional  view  of  the  apartment  at  Hampton  Court 
in  which  they  were  then  placed.    This  series  met  with  great  success. 

169  13  Westall :  Richard  Westall  (1765-1836),  a  prominent  historical 
painter.  Early  in  the  nineteenth  century  he  devoted  himself  chiefly  to 
designs  for  illustration  of  editions  of  the  English  poets.  His  pictures  in 
"  Pilgrim's  Progress"  and  "Don  Quixote"  are  very  much  admired. 

169  111  Paul  and  Virginia  ...  at  an  inn  at  Bridgewater  :  "  Paul  et  Vir- 
ginie,"  by  Bernardin  de  Saint  Pierre  (1737-1814),  appeared  in  178S.  It 
was  translated  into  English  in  1796  by  II.  M.  Williams. 

169  22  Camilla:  this  novel  by  Fanny  Burney  was  published  in  1796. 
Though  a  literary  failure,  it  enabled  the  author  to  build  a  cottage  for 
herself,  called  Camilla  Cottage. 


362  SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 

169  23  New  Eloise  ...  at  the  inn  at  Llangollen  :  see  the  essay  "  My 
First  Acquaintance  with  Poets,"  p.  iS6.  Rousseau's  "New  Heloise" 
was  finished  in   1759  and  published   early  in   1761. 

169  25  St.  Preux  describes  his  feelings :  Rousseau,  "  La  Nouvelle 
Ileloise,"  Partie  IV,  Lettre  XVII. 

169  34  "green  upland  swells"  :  Coleridge,  "Ode  on  the  Departing 
Year,"  VII,  4-6. 

170  13  "The  beautiful  is  vanished":  Coleridge,  "The  Death  of 
Wallenstein,"  V,  i. 

171  12  "Beyond  Hyde  Park":  "The  Man  of  Mode"  (1676),  by  Sir 
George  Etheredge  (1635  P-iGgi),  Act  V,  scene  ii,  p.  361  (edited  by 
Verity) : 

Donniant  to  Harriet.  Whate'er  you  say,  I  know  all  beyond  Hyde  Park 's  a 
desert  to  you,  and  that  no  gallantry  can  draw  you  further. 

See  also  "  On  Londoners  and  Country  People,"  Works,  VII,  67. 

171  12  Sir  Topling  Flutter  :  should  be  Sir  Fopling  Flutter. 

172  16  "  The  mind  is  its  own  place  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  I,  254. 

172  18  I  once  took  a  party  :  see  Introduction,  p.  xxv ;  also  "  On  the 
Conversation  of  Authors,"  Works,  VII,  24-44;  "Memoirs,"  I,  172; 
Lamb's  "Letters,"  August  9,  1819  ;  Lucas,  "  Life  of  Charles  Lamb," 
I,  300. 

172  21  "'With  glistering  spires"  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  III,  550. 

172  25  Ciceroni :  this  is  the  plural  form  for  cicerone,  the  Italian  word 
for  "  guide,"  so  named  on  account  of  the  proverbial  talkativeness  of 
those  who  describe  the  antiquities  and  curiosities  of  museums. 

173  10  when  I  first  set  my  foot :  "  Notes  of  a  Journey  through  France 
and  Italy,"  Works,  IX,  302  : 

We  returned  by  way  of  St.  Omers  and  Calais.  I  wished  to  see  Calais  once 
more,  for  it  was  there  I  first  landed  in  France  twenty  years  ago. 

This  was  the  occasion  of  his  going  to  Paris  (October,  1802)  to  study 
at  the  Louvre. 

173  33  Dr.  Johnson  remarked  :  Boswell's  "  Life  "  (edited  by  Hill),  III, 
301  : 

So  it  is  in  travelling,  a  man  must  carrj'  knowledge  with  him,  if  he  would  bring 
home  knowledge. 
Also 

Time  may  be  employed  to  more  advantage  from  nineteen  to  twenty-four  alniost 
in  any  way  than  in  travelling ;  when  you  set  travelling  against  mere  negation, 
against  doing  nothing,  it  is  better  to  be  sure,  but  how  much  more  would  a  young 


NOTES  363 

man  improve  were  he  to  study  during  those  years.  .  .  .  How  little  does  travelling 
supply  to  the  conversation  of  any  man  who  has  travelled  ;  how  little  to  Beauclerk 
(Boswell's  "Life"  (edited  by  Hill),  III,  352). 

174  8  "Out  of  my  country":  at  present  no  one  has  been  able  to 
identify  this  quotation. 

MY  FIRST  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  POETS 

The  germ  of  this  essay  is  "  Mr.  Coleridge's  Lay-Sermon,  to  the 
editor  of  the  Exaviiiier"  January  12,  1817.  It  was  reprinted  in  "  Polit- 
ical Essays"  (1819).  Then  the  essay,  as  we  have  it,  was  printed  in 
Leigh  Hunt's  review  '"  The  Liberal :  Verse  and  Prose  from  the  South  " 
(1823)  and  this  was  then  republished  by  Hazlitt's  son  in  "Literary 
Remains"  (1S36),  II,  359-397.  Our  text  is  reprinted  from  "The 
Liberal "  which  is  the  form  of  the  essay  left  by  Hazlitt. 

This  essay  has  always  been  admired  by  readers  of  Hazlitt.  For  its 
account  of  the  first  great  influence  upon  Hazlitt's  literary  life,  and  for 
its  picture  of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  at  the  very  beginning  of  their 
poetic  career,  as  well  as  for  the  enthusiasm  of  its  style,  it  deserves  a  high 
place  among  the  personal  essays  of  our  literature.  In  one  of  the  best 
criticisms  of  Hazlitt,  Professor  Winchester  has  called  it  "  the  most  de- 
lightful essay  of  personal  reminiscence  in  the  English  language." 

175  1  W m  :  Wem,  a  village  near  Shrewsbury.    See  Introduction, 

pp.  xii  ff. 

175  .3  "  dreaded  name  of  Demogorgon  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  II,  964-965. 
175  18  "fluttering  the  proud  Salopians"  :  "  Coriolanus,"  V,  vi,  115: 

That,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote,  I 
Flutter'd  your  Volscians  in  Corioli. 

Shrewsbury  is  the  chief  town  of  Shropshire  or  Salop,  from  the  old 
Latin  name  Salopia.  Hence  Hazlitt's  name  for  the  inhabitants  of 
Shrewsbury. 

175  23  "High-born  Hoel's  harp  "  :  Gray,  "  The  Bard,"  1.  28. 

176  C  "  With  Styx  "  :   Pope,  "  Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day,"  11.  90-91  : 

Tho'  fate  had  fast  bound  her 
With  Styx  nine  times  round  her. 

Mr.  Rowe  was  the  Unitarian  minister  at  Shrewsburj' ;  later  in  the 
year  he  took  the  church  at  Bristol.  Whitchurch  is  a  small  town  about 
nine  miles  north  of  Wem,  which  is  about  ten  miles  from  Shrewsbury. 

176  21  the  fires  in  the  Agamemnon  :  used  as  the  beacon  in  the  play  by 
j^schylus  to  announce  the  fall  of  Troy. 


364  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

177  2  "  H  y  a  des  impressions"  :  Rousseau,  "  Confessions  "  : 

There  are  impressions  that  neither  times  nor  circumstances  can  efface.  Were 
I  enabled  to  live  whole  ages,  the  sweet  days  of  my  youth  could  not  revive  for  me, 
nor  ever  be  obliterated  in  my  memory. 

177  5  When  I  got  there  :  the  little  church  on  High  Street,  Shrewsbury, 
is  still  used  by  the  Unitarian  congregation.  Though  altered  both  within 
and  without,  it  retains  the  same  pulpit  and  benches,  though  the  backs 
of  the  pews  have  been  cut  down.  On  the  wall  at  the  rear  of  the  pulpit 
is  the  decree  of  King  George  III  affording  protection  to  the  worship- 
ers. This  was  secured  by  the  members  after  the  outrages  practiced 
upon  Priestley.    Charles  Darwin  was  a  member  of  this  church. 

177  7  his  text:  John  vi,  15. 

177  14  "of  one  crying"  :   Matthew  iii,  3-4. 

177  2(5  "as  though  he  should  never  be  old":  Sidney's  "Arcadia," 
Lib.  I. 

177  32  "Such  were  the  notes":  Pope,  "Epistle  to  Robert,  Earl  of 
Oxford,"  1.  I  : 

Such  were  the  notes  thy  once-loved  Poet  sung, 
Till  Death  untimely  stopp'd  his  tuneful  tongue. 

178  12  "  Like  to  that  sanguine  "  :  "  Lycidas,"  1.  106. 

178  25  "As  are  the  children":  Thomson,  "The  Castle  of  Indo- 
lence," II,  stanza  xxxiii. 

178  28  "  A  certain  tender  "  :  ibid.  I,  57. 

178  30  Murillo  (1618-1682)  and  Velasquez  (1599-1660):  both  were 
celebrated  Spanish  painters. 

179  1()  Coleridge  was  at  that  time  (179S):  for  independence  of  his 
views  Coleridge  had  been  expelled  from  Cambridge  and  had  entered  a 
regiment  of  dragoons.  Encouraged  by  the  Captain,  who  had  found  hirrt 
reading  Plato  in  Greek,  Coleridge  left  the  army  and  entered  into  the 
scheme  of  the  Pantisocracy.  When  this  plan  failed,  the  young  enthusi- 
ast began  a  series  of  meetings  in  various  English  cities  for  the  purpose 
of  disseminating  his  views  on  politics  and  religion.  In  that  capacity  he 
had  become  well  known,  and  it  is  not  strange  that  the  people  at 
.Shrewsbury  eagerly  awaited  his  coming. 

179  l!l  poor  Irish  lad  :  Ilazlitt's  father  had  been  born  in  Tipperary 
County,  Ireland ;  he  was  sent  to  Glasgow  at  the  age  of  nineteen  (1756) 
where  he  studied  under  Adam  Smith  (1723-1790),  the  celebrated 
Scottish  political  economist.  For  an  account  of  the  life  of  Hazlitt's 
father,  see  \V.  C.  Hazlitt,  "  Four  Generations  of  a  Literary  Family." 


NOTES  365 

181  !)  Mciry  Wolstonecraft  (1759-1797) :  wife  of  William  Godwin  and 
mother  of  the  second  wife  of  Shelley.  She  was  the  author  of  the 
"Vindication  of  the  Rights  of  Women"'  (1792). 

181  10  Mackintosh:  Sir  James  Mackintosh  (1765-1S32),  philosopher 
and  historian.  In  1791  he  published  "\'indiciae  Gallicae "  in  answer 
to  Burke's  "  Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France."  See  Hazlitt's 
essay  in  the  "  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  W^orks,  IV,  279. 

182  124  making  him  an  offer :  Coleridge  preached  at  Shrewsbury  on 
Sunday,  January  14,  i7S(j.  On  the  loth,  Josiah  Wedgwood  had  written  : 
"  After  what  my  brother  Thomas  has  written  I  have  only  to  state  the 
proposal  we  wish  to  make  to  you.  It  is  that  you  shall  accept  an  annuity 
for  life  of  ^150  to  be  regularly  paid  by  us,  no  condition  whatsoever 
being  annexed  to  it."  See  Mrs.  Henry  Sandford,  "Thomas  Poole  and 
His  Friends,"  I,  236-238  ;  also  R.  B.  Witchfield,  "  Life  of  Tom  Wedg- 
wood "  (1903). 

This  letter  reached  Stowey  (Coleridge's  home)  on  Saturday  the  13th, 
when  Coleridge  was  on  his  way  to  Shrewsbury.  Tom  Poole  took 
charge  of  the  letter  and  forwarded  it  or  sent  word  of  its  contents. 
Coleridge  decided  to  accept  the  gift,  and  on  the  30th  wrote  to  Thelwall, 
"  Astonished,  agitated  and  feeling  as  I  could  not  help  feeling,  I  accepted 
the  offer  in  the  same  worthy  spirit  in  which  it  was  made."  On  his 
return  from  Shrewsbury  he  went  to  Tom  Poole's  house  to  meet  Tom 
Wedgwood  "  to  make  his  personal  acknowledgments  of  the  offer  of  the 
annuity  which  he  had  just  made  up  his  mind  to  accept." 

182  30  Deva :  the  ancient  Latin  name  for  the  Dee,  a  river  of  North 
Wales  which  flows  past  Chester  into  the  Irish  Sea. 

183  3  Shepherd  on  the  Delectable  Mountains  :  in  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  " 
Christian  and  Hopeful  come  to  the  Shepherds  of  the  Delectable  Moun- 
tains immediately  after  they  have  escaped  from  Giant  Despair. 

183  13  Cassandra:  in  "Cassandre"  by  La  Calprenedc.  "I  confess  I 
have  read  some  of  these  fabulous  folios  formerly  with  no  small  degree 
of  delight  and  breathless  an.xiety,  particularly  that  of  'Cassandra.'" 
Works,  XII,  61. 

183  21  "Sounding  on  his  way"  :  Chaucer's  description  of  the  Mer- 
chant, "  Prologue,"  1.  275. 

183  .U  Hume  .  .  .  Essay  on  Miracles:  David  Hume  (1711-1776),  the 
famous  Scottish  philosopher  and  historian,  known  chiefly  as  the  ex- 
pounder of  skeptical  views  in  philosophy.  His  great  work,  "  Treatise  on 
Human  Nature."  was  published.  Vols.  I  and  II  in  1739,  Vol.  Ill  in  1740. 

184  1  South's  Sermons  :  Robert  South  (1634-1716),  the  noted  English 
divine  who  began  a  controversy  on  the  Trinity,  which  aroused  such 
bitterness  that  the  king  intervened. 


366  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

184  2  Credat  Judaeus  Apella :  Horace,  "Satires,"  I,  v,  loo: 

Credat  ludaeus  Apella, 
Non  ego. 

Let  the  Jew  Apella  believe  it,  I  will  not. 

See  Notes  and  Queries,  ninth  series,  III,  326;  VII,  240. 

184  10  Essay  on  Vision :  by  George  Berkeley  (1685-1753),  Irish  bishop. 
His  "  Essay  on  Vision  "  was  pubUshed  in  1709  ;  "  Theory  of  Matter  and 
Spirit"  in  1733.  The  aim  of  Berkeley  throughout  his  writings  is  to 
attack  materialism,  and  he  is  therefore  opposed  to  Ilobbes. 

184  14  " Thus  I  confute  him "  :  Boswell,  "  Life"  (edited  by  Hill),  I,  471. 

184  16  Tom  Paine:  Thomas  Paine  (1737-1809),  Anglo-American 
political  writer  and  freethinker.  He  supported  the  cause  of  the  Ameri- 
can Colonies  and  published  "Rights  of  Man"  in  1791-1792.  For  this 
he  was  outlawed  from  England. 

184  20  Bishop  Butler  :  Joseph  Butler  (1692-1752),  English  theologian, 
bishop  of  Bristol  and  of  Durham.  His  most  famous  work  was  "  The 
Analogy  of  Religion"  (1736).  "  Fifteen  Sermons  Preached  at  the  Rolls 
Chapel"  (1726)  is  referred  to  in  this  passage. 

184  32  Natural  Disinterestedness :  printed  by  Hazlitt  in  1805,  though 
he  had  been  thinking  it  over  for  years. 

185  l(j  Sidney  :  besides  Sidney's  prose,  it  will  be  remembered  that  he 
wrote  the  famous  sonnet  sequence,  "Astrophel  and  Stella"  (1591). 

185  21  Paley:  William  Paley  (1743-1805),  English  theologian  and 
philosopher. 

185  29  "'  Kind  and  affable  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  VIII,  648-650. 

186  5  he  has  somewhere  told  himself :  "  Biographia  Literaria,"  chap.  x. 
186  13  that  other  Vision  of  Judgment :  see  an  account  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Reviezv,  June,  1822  : 

This  was  by  Byron,  published  in  the  first  number  of  Leigh  Hunt's  Liberal. 
The  Bridge-Street  Association,  or  Gang  as  it  was  called  by  its  enemies,  was 
founded  in  182 1  to  support  the  laws  for  suppressing  seditious  publications  and  for 
defending  the  country  from  the  fatal  influence  of  disloyalty  and  sedition. 

186  32  Llangollen  Vale  :  in  Wales,  about  thirty-six  miles  from  Wem. 

186  M  Ode  on  the  Departing  Year :  this  poem  was  composed  in  Decem- 
ber 23-26,  1796.  It  appeared  in  an  abridged  form  on  December  31, 
and  later  complete  in  a  quarto  text. 

187  7  thought  of  Tom  Jones  :  "  Tom  Jones,"  Book  X,  chap.  v.  This 
was  one  of  Ilazlitt's  favorite  books. 

187  9  at  Tewkesbury:  according  to  his  essay,  "  On  Going  a  Journey," 
it  was  at  Bridgewater.    See  p.  169. 


NOTES  367 

187  ID  Paul  and  Virginia:  this  story  had  appeared  in  1788. 

187  22  Poems  on  the  Naming  of  Places:  these  are  seven  poems  by  Words- 
worth, written  about  Grasmere,  Keswick,  and  people  and  places  near  by. 

188  5  I  saw  it  but  the  other  day  :  probably  on  one  of  his  excursions 
out  of  Salisbury,  while  he  was  living  and  writing  at  Winterslow. 

188  S  Coleridge  took  me  over  :  that  is,  from  Nether  Stowey  to  Alfoxden. 

188  10  a  friend  of  the  poet's  :  in  1797  Wordsworth  had  moved  to  Al- 
foxden, a  "  large  mansion  in  a  large  park  with  seventy  head  of  deer." 
Ilazlitt  is  mistaken.  Wordsworth  paid  £22  a  year  for  Alfoxden.  See 
Mrs.  Sandford,  "Thomas  Poole  and  his  Friends,"  I,  225.  Early  in 
that  year  Coleridge  had  moved  to  Nether  Stowey  in  Somersetshire. 
In  June  at  the  little  village  of  Racedown,  Dorsetshire,  Coleridge  visited 
Wordsworth.  In  July  the  Wordsworths  returned  the  visit  and  in  August 
they  took  the  neighboring  country  house  of  Alfoxden. 

188  17  the  Lyrical  Ballads:  these  famous  poems  appeared  in  the 
autumn  of  179S,  before  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  and  Dorothy  Words- 
worth left  for  Germany  on  the  sixteenth  of  September.  In  18 17  Coleridge 
reissued  his  poems  already  published,  with  the  title  "  Sibylline  Leaves." 

188  25  "  hear  the  loud  stag  speak  "  :  no  one  has  thus  far  succeeded  in 
pointing  out  the  source  of  this  quotation. 

189  17  "  In  spite  of  pride  "  :  Pope,  "  Essay  on  Man,"  I,  293. 
189  22  "  While  yet  "  :  Thomson,  "  The  Seasons,"  Spritig,  18. 

189  2."'.  '"  Of  Providence  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  II,  559-560. 

190  21  Chantry's  bust:  this  was  executed  before  1S21  and  is  now  at 
Coleorton. 

190  2.)  Haydon's  head  of  him :  a  portrait  by  Haydon  introduced  into 
his  "  Christ's  Entry  into  Jerusalem."  This  picture  is  now  in  the  Roman 
Catholic  Cathedral  at  Cincinnati. 

190  3;i  the  Castle  Spectre:  by  "  Monk"  Lewis  (1775-1S1S)  ;  this  play 
had  been  produced  at  Drury  Lane,  December  14,  1797.  Wordsworth  saw 
it  in  the  following  spring. 

191  1  ad  captandum  merit :  a  quality  for  catching  popular  applause. 
191  14  '"  his  face  was  as  a  book*"  :  "  Macbeth,"  I,  v,  63. 

191  &i  Tom  Poole:  Thomas  Poole  (1765-1837)  was  a  Bristol  tanner 
who  has  become  famous  for  his  kindness  to  authors,  especially  Coleridge 
and  Wordsworth.  A  delightful  biography  has  been  written  by  his 
daughter,  Mrs.  Henry  Sandford,  "Thomas  Poole  and  his  Friends," 
2  vols.  (18S8). 

192  8  '"  followed  in  the  chace  "  :  "  Othello,"  II,  iii,  370. 

192  lii  followed  Coleridge  into  Germany :  after  the  publication  of  the 
"  Lyrical  Ballads,"  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  and  Dorothy  Wordsworth 


368  SELECTIONS   FROM  HAZLITT 

went  to  Germany  in  September  of  the  same  year,  179S.  To  all,  this  was 
a  most  important  event. 

192  22  Sir  Walter  Scott's  :  Hazlitt  probably  refers  to  the  banquet 
given  to  George  IV  by  the  magistrates  of  Edinburgh,  August  24,  1822. 

192  22  Mr.  Blackwood's:  William  Blackwood  (i 776-1834),  Scotch 
publisher  and  bookseller,  founder  and  editor  of  Blackwood's  Edin- 
/>in-L(/i  Magazine^  April  I,  1S17. 

192  28  Gasper  Poussin  (1613-1675):  French  landscape  painter, 
brother-in-law  and  pupil  of  Nicolas  Poussin. 

192  28  Domenichino  :  or  Domenico  Zampieri  (15S1 -164 1),  noted  Italian 
painter,  famous  for  the  correctness  of  his  design. 

193  I'J  Giant's  Causeway:  the  celebrated  rock  formation  on  the  north 
coast  of  Ireland. 

193  2(5  Death  of  Abel :  by  Solomon  Gessner  (1730-17S8),  who  was  a 
Swiss  idyllic  poet  and  landscape  painter.  His  best-known  piece  is  "  Tod 
Abels  "  (1758),  a  prose  idyl. 

193  ai  Seasons:  "The  Seasons,"  by  James  Thomson,  appeared  1726- 
1730.  See  Ilazlitt's  criticism  on  Thomson  and  Cowper,  "  Lectures  on 
English  Poets,"  Lecture  V,  Works,  V,  85. 

194  27  Caleb  Williams:  famous  political  novel  by  William  Godwin 
(1756-1836),  published  in  1794.  Godwin  was  one  of  the  important  men 
of  his  time  and  associated  with  all  the  chief  writers,  especially  Hazlitt, 
Lamb,  the  Hunts,  Shelley.  See  Hazlitt's  essay  in  the  "  Spirit  of  the 
Age,"  Works,  IV,  200.  See  also  C.  Kegan  Paul,  "William  Godwin, 
his  Friends  and  Contemporaries"  (1S76). 

194  note  Buffamalco :  P.uonamico  Buffalmacco  (1311-1351),  Floren- 
tine painter,  celebrated  for  his  jests  in  Boccaccio's  "  Decameron."  See 
Vasari,  "  Lives  of  the  Painters,  Sculptors,  and  Architects." 

195  2  "  ribbed  sea-sands  "  :  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  11.  224-227  : 

I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand 

And  thou  art  long  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

In  a  note  Coleridge  says,  "  I'"or  the  last  two  lines  of  this  stanza  I  am 
indebted  to  Mr.  Wordsworth." 

195  :!1  Remorse  :  this  play  was  produced  at  Drury  Lane,  January  23, 
1813,  and  was  fairly  successful.  It  ran  for  twenty  nights.  For  his 
share  Coleridge  received  ^^400. 

196  I  Mr.  Elliston  :  Robert  William  I'.lliston  (1771  iS;,!).  He  was  a 
favorite    actor   of    i.amjj's    and    playi'd    tlic   title    part    in    Camb's   farce 


NOTES  369 

"Mr.  II.,"  which  failed  on  December  10,  1S06.  See  Lamij's  l*;iia  essay 
called  "  Ellistoniana." 

196  11  It  was  at  Godwin's:  the  meeting  between  Hazlitt  and  Lamb 
took  place  probably  in  the  early  months  of  1804  and  was  brought  about 
by  Coleridge.    See  Lucas,  "  Life  of  Lamb,"  I,  341. 

196  12  Holcroft :  Thomas  Holcroft  (1745-1809),  English  dramatist, 
miscellaneous  writer,  and  actor.  Because  he  embraced  the  principles  of 
the  P>ench  Revolution  he  was  indicted  for  high  treason  and  imprisoned 
for  a  short  time.    Ilazlitt  wrote  a  life  of  him.    See  Works,  II,  1-28 1. 

196  17  "  But  there    is   matter  "  :  Wordsworth,    "  Hart- Leap    Well," 

11.  95-96 : 

But  there  is  matter  for  a  second  rhyme, 

And  I  to  this  would  add  another  tale. 


MERRY  ENGLAND 

This  essay  first  appeared  in  the  Al-ic  iMonthly  JMagazine  for  Decem- 
ber, 1825;  it  was  published  in  "  Sketches  and  Essays"  (1S39). 

197  1  "St.  George  for  merry  England":  St.  George  was  recognized 
as  the  patron  saint  of  England  from  the  time  of  Edward  III  (1327-1377), 
probably  because  of  his  being  adopted  as  patron  of  the  Order  of  the 
Garter.  The  phrase  "  merry  England  "  appears  in  "  Cursor  Mundi," 
1300-1400;  also  in  "A  Lytell  Geste  of  Robin  Ilood."  See  Notes  and 
Queries,  tenth  series,  X,  88. 

197  3  Utlucus :  the  phrase  is  Inctts  a  tioii  luceiulo,  "a  light  from  its  not 
shining."  The  phrase  is  used  to  mark  an  absurd  or  discordant  etymology. 
Litciis,  "  a  grove,"  is  derived  from  Iiucre,  "  to  shine,"  because  the  rays 
of  the  sun  are  supposed  rarely  to  shine  through  its  foliage. 

197  24  Silence:  "  2  Henry  IV,"  V,  iii,  42. 

197  2.S   "there  were  pippins  "  :  "  Merry  Wives,"  I,  ii,  12. 

198  4  "Continents  have  most":  Ilobbes,  "Human  Nature,"  Works 
(edited  by  Molesworth),  IV,  50. 

198  21;  "They,"  says  Froissart:  also  quoted  in  "The  Round  Table." 
See  Works,  I,  431.  This  well-known  saying  is  wrongly  attributed  to 
Froissart.     See  Aotes  and  Queries  for  1S63  and  subsequent  years. 

199  (1  Blindman's-buff :  see  Strutt,  "Sports  and  Pastimes"  (edited  by 
Hone,  1838),  p.  392. 

199  (5  hunt-the-slipper:   ibid.  p.  387. 
199  7  hot-cockles :  ibid.  p.  393. 

From  the  French  hautes-coquilks,  a  ])l:iy  in  wliich  one  kneels,  and  covering 
his  eyes  lays  his  head  in  another'^  k.p  and  guesses  who  struck  him. 


370  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

The  New  English  Dictionary  refuses  to  accept  this  derivation  of  the 
word,  but  suggests  no  other. 

199  7  snap-dragon:  ibid.  p.  397. 

199  21  Drury-lane  or  Covent-garden  :  the  first  theater  of  which  we  have 
record  in  Drury  Lane  was  The  Cockpit,  where,  in  the  days  of  the  Com- 
monwealth, actors  attempted  surreptitiously  to  give  plays.  Then  a  more 
convenient  building  was  erected  in  the  same  street  and  opened  April  8, 
1663.  In  January,  1671-1672,  this  theater  took  fire  and  was  entirely  de- 
stroyed. The  new  theater,  under  the  direction  of  Sir  Christopher  Wren, 
was  built  and  opened  March  26,  1674.  In  1791  it  was  taken  down  so  that  a 
more  commodious  building  might  be  erected  on  the  same  site.  This  new 
theater  was  opened  on  the  twelfth  of  March,  1794.  It  was  destroyed  by 
fire  on  February  24, 1809.  .  .  .  The  incident  is  well  known  of  Sheridan,  its 
manager,  refusing  to  postpone  a  debate  in  the  House  of  Commons  when 
the  fire  was  discovered.  The  new  theater  was  reopened  in  October,  181 2. 

The  Covent  Garden  Theater  was  opened  for  its  first  play  on  October 
2,  1732.  It  was  burned  on  September  20,  1808.  The  corner  stone  of  the 
new  building  was  laid  with  great  ceremony  by  the  Prince  of  Wales  on 
December  31  of  the  same  year.  For  a  sketch  of  these  two  theaters  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  see  introduction  to  Baker's  "  Biographia  Dra- 
matica"  (1812).  It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  the  history  of  these 
two  theaters  from  the  Restoration  to  the  nineteenth  century,  with  the  ac- 
count of  their  managers  and  actors,  is  the  story  of  dramatic  production 
in  England  during  that  time.   See  also  Colley  Cibber's  "Apology  "  (1740). 

199  ;33  Jack-o'-the-Green  :   Strutt,  p.  358  : 

The  Jack  in  the  Green  is  a  piece  of  pageantry  consisting  of  a  hollow  frame 
of  wood  or  wicker-work,  made  in  the  form  of  a  sugar  loaf,  but  open  at  the  bottom 
and  sufficiently  large  and  high  to  receive  a  man.  The  frame  is  covered  with  green 
leaves  and  bunches  of  flowers  interwoven  with  each  other,  so  that  the  man  within 
may  be  completely  concealed,  who  dances  with  his  companions,  and  the  populace 
are  mightily  pleased  with  the  oddity  of  the  moving  pyramid. 

200  (i  "  Long  Robinson  "  .  .  .  Old  Lord's :  fiord's  is  the  famous  cricket 
ground  in  England.  A  few  years  ago  when  it  was  proposed  to  build  a 
tram  line  through  the  ground,  a  peer  in  Parliament  in  outspoken  opposi- 
tion exclaimed,  "  Lord's  is  one  of  the  most  sacred  spots  in  England." 
In  1787  the  first  Lord's  ground  was  laid  off  on  the  site  of  what  is  now 
Dorset  Square  ;  it  was  again  moved  in  181 1,  and  to  the  present  place  in 
1814,  in  St.  John's  Wood,  London.  It  took  the  name  from  Thomas  Lord, 
a  prominent  cricketer  and  keeper  of  grounds  in  the  eighteenth  century. 

200  '24  the  joy  of  the  ring  :  see  Ilazlitt's  famous  essay,  "  The  Fight," 
Works,  XII,  I. 


NOTES  371 

200  note  "passage  of  arms  at  Ashby " :  see  Scott,  "  Ivanhoe," 
chaps,  vii  and  viii. 

201  7  "A  cry  more  tuneable"  :  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  IV,  i, 
121.    Note  that  the  word  "  tuneable  "  here  means  musical. 

201  17  Theseus  and  Pirithous  :  two  close  friends  famous  in  classic  my- 
thology. With  the  assistance  of  Pirithous,  Theseus  carried  off  Helen 
from  Sparta.  Then  in  the  attempt  of  Pirithous  to  take  away  Proserpine, 
Pluto  seized  them  both  and  fastened  them  to  a  rock. 

201  '1\  "brothers  of  the  angle"  :  Walton,  "Compleat  Angler,"  Part  I, 
chap.  i.     Elsewhere  Hazlitt  writes  : 

Perhaps  the  best  pastoral  in  the  language  is  that  prose-poem,  Walton's  Com- 
plete Angler. 

See  Works,  V,  98-99  ;  see  also  essay,  "  On  Egotism,"  Works,  VII,  161. 

201  note  This  was  the  reason  the  French  :  see  Hazlitt's  account  of 
the  battle  of  Waterloo  in  his  "  Life  of  Napoleon,"  chap.  Ivi. 

202  29  Will  Wimble:  see  "On  Periodical  Essayists,"  p.  18. 

202  31  The  Cockney  character  :  see  above,  p.  355. 

203  16  Book  of  Sports  :  "  The  King's  Maiesties  Declaration  to  his 
Subjects  concerning  lawfull  Sports  to  be  used,"  published  by  James  I 
in  1618  and  reissued  by  his  son  in  1633. 

203  21  "  And  e'en  on  Sunday  "  :  Burns,  "Tam  O'Shanter,"  11.  27-28. 

203  29  Bartholomew-Fair :  this  was  a  fair  or  market  held  at  West 
Smithfield,  London,  on  St.  Bartholomew's  Day  (24  August  O.S.).  It 
continued  from  1133  till  1855  when  it  was  discontinued.  For  a  full  and 
interesting  account  of  the  Fair  see  H.  Morley,  "  Memoirs  of  Bartholomew 
Fair."  In  his  play  of  the  same  name,  Ben  Jonson  has  many  a  gibe  at 
the  Puritans  of  his  day. 

204  7  Gilray's  shop-window :  Miss  Humphrey's  shop,  29  St.  James's 
Street,  where  the  works  of  James  Gilray  (i 757-181 5),  the  caricaturist, 
were  on  view.  In  the  first  number  of  the  Anti-Jacobhi  Revinv  and  Alaga- 
zine,  August  i,  1798,  appeared  a  cartoon  of  Gilray,  which  became  very  fa- 
mous. The  picture  .shows  a  group  of  prominent  English  revolutionists  — 
Duke  of  Bedford,  Coleridge,  Southey,  Lloyd,  and  Lamb,  the  last  two  rep- 
resented by  a  toad  and  a  frog.   See  Lucas,  "  Life  of  Charles  Lamb,"  I,  136. 

204  note  Shrovetide  :  Shrove  Tuesday,  the  last  day  before  Lent,  a 
great  time  for  sports  of  all  kinds. 

206  8  Byron  was  in  the  habit:  see  "Byron's  Letters  and  Journals" 
(edited  by  Prothero),  V,  52S,  533-535.  559  ff. 

206  20  "That  under  Heaven":  "Faerie  (^ueene,"  Book  I,  canto  vii, 
stanza  32. 


372  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

207  !)  Childe  Harold:  the  first  two  cantos  of  "Childe  Harold"  were 
published  in  181:2,  the  third  in  1816,  the  fourth  in  1818.  "Don  Juan," 
cantos  i  and  ii  in  1819;  iii-v  in  1821 ;  vi-xiv  in  1823;  xv,  xvi  in  1824. 

208  2  Lubin  Log  or  Tony  Lumpkin  :  Tony  Lumpkin  in  Goldsmith's 
"She  Stoops  to  Conquer";  Lubin  Log  in  "Love,  Law  and  Physic," 
by  James  Kenney  (i 780-1849). 

208 '20  ff.  Mrs.  Jordan:  Mrs.  Jordan  was  the  assumed  name  of  Dorothy 
Bland  (1762-1862),  an  Irish  actress,  distinguished  for  her  Rosalind  and 
Viola.  Thomas  King  (1730-1805).  John  Bannister  (1760-1836)  was  a 
pupil  of  David  Garrick.  His  retirement  from  the  stage  at  Drury  Lane 
was  described  by  Hazlitt  in  the  Examiner,  June  4,  1815,  Works,  VIII, 
229.  Richard  Suett  (1755-1805)  had  a  part  in  the  first  play  which 
Hazlitt  ever  saw  (Introduction,  pp.  xiv  and  xliv).  Joseph  Munden  (1758- 
1832).  Charles  Lamb  called  him  the  king  of  broad  comedy.  James 
William  Dodd  (1730-1805),  William  Parsons  (1736-1795),  John  Emery 
(1777-1S22),  Elizabeth  Farren  (1759  ?-i829). 

208  27  ff.  Nell,  &c.  :  Nell  in  "  The  Devil  to  Pay,  or  The  Wives  Meta- 
morphosed," by  Coffey,  a  part  taken  by  Mrs.  Jordan  ;  Little  Pickle  in 
"The  Spoiled  Child";  Touchstone  in  "As  You  Like  It";  Sir  Peter 
Teazle  in  "  School  for  Scandal,"  by  Sheridan  ;  Lenitive  in  "  The  Prize," 
by  Prince  Hoare  ;  Lingo  in  "  The  Agreeable  Surprise,"  by  O'Keefe  ; 
Crabtree  in  "  School  for  Scandal,"  by  Sheridan  ;  Nipperkin  in  "  Sprigs 
of  Laurel";  Dornton  in  "The  Road  to  Ruin,"  a  comedy  in  five  acts  by 
Thomas  Holcroft;  Ranger  in  "The  Suspicious  Husband"  (1747),  by 
Hoadly;  Copper  Captain  in  "  Rule  aWife  andllave  a  Wife,"  by  F"letcher; 
Lord  Sands  in  Shakspere's  "  King  Henry  VIII  "  ;  Filch  in  Gay's'"  Beg- 
gar's Opera  "  ;  Moses  in  "  School  for  Scandal  "  ;  Acres  in  Sheridan's 
"  The  Rivals  "  ;  Elbow  in  Shakspere's  "  Measure  for  Measure  "  ;  Hodge 
in  "Love  in  a  Village"  (1763),  a  comic  opera  by  Isaac  Bickerstaff; 
flora  in  "  The  Wonder,"  by  Mrs.  Centlivre ;  Duenna  in  "  Duenna " 
(1775),  a  three-act  comic  opera  by  Sheridan;  Lady  Teazle  in  "  School 
for  Scandal";  Lady  Grace  in  "The  Provoked  Husband,  or  A  Journey 
to  London,"  by  Vanbrugh  and  Cibber. 

209  1)  Roderick  Random  :   Smollett's  first  story  (1748). 

209  10  Hogarth's  prints  :  see  Ilazlitt's  essay  on  that  subject  in  Works, 
L  25. 
209  11;  "What's  our  Britain"  :  "  Cymbcline,"  III,  iv,  138: 

1'  the  world's  volume 
Our  Britain  seems  as  of  it,  but  not  in  "t ; 
In  a  great  pool,  a  swan's  nest,  prithee,  think 
There  's  livers  out  of  Britain. 


NOTES  373 

209  22  Mrs.  Abington  :  Frances  Abington  (1737-1815),  flower  seller, 
street  singer,  cook  maid,  and  comedy  queen.    Ilazlitt  wrote : 

I  would  rather  have  seen  Mrs.  Abington's  Millamant  than  any  Rosalind  that 
ever  appeared  on  the  stage. 

See  "  Lectures  on  Comic  Writers,"  Works,  VIII,  74. 

209  22  Mademoiselle  Mars:  Anne  Fran9oise  Boutet-Monvel  (1779- 
1S47),  the  clever  impersonator  of  Molicre's  heroines  at  the  Theatre 
Fran^ais.  Her  father,  Montet,  was  an  actor,  and  her  mother,  Mars,  an 
actress. 

210  7  As  I  write  this  :  this  paper  was  written  apparently  at  Vevey  in 
the  summer  of  1S25.  See  "  Memoirs,"  Vol.  II,  chap.  xv.  See  also 
Works,  IX,  281. 

210  13  "  And  gaudy  butterflies  "  :  from  one  of  Polly's  songs  in  "  The 
Beggar's  Opera,"  Act  I,  scene  i. 

OF   PERSONS  ONE  WOULD  WISH   TO   HAVE  SEEN 

This  essay  appeared  first  in  the  iVero  Monthly  Afagnzine  for  Januarj', 
1826;  it  was  republished  in  '"  Literary  Remains"  (1S36)  and  in  "'  Win- 
terslow"  (1850). 

This  essay  should  be  read  in  connection  with  the  two  in  "  The  Plain 
Speaker,"  "On  the  Conversation  of  Authors." 

My  attention  has  been  called  by  Mr.  J.  Rogers  Rees  of  Salisbury, 
England,  to  what  is  certainly  the  source  of  the  idea  of  this  paper.  In 
1768  there  appeared  a  work  by  Abraham  Tucker,  "  The  Light  of  Nature 
Pursued  by  Edward  Search."  In  1807  Ilazlitt  published  an  abridgment 
of  this  very  popular  work.  The  twenty-third  chapter  of  Vol.  1 1  had  the 
heading,  "  The  Vision,"  and  began  as  follows : 

One  day  after  having  my  thoughts  intent  all  the  morning  upon  the  subject  of 
the  two  foregoing  chapters,  I  went  out  in  the  evening  to  a  neighbor's  house  to 
recreate  myself  with  a  game  at  cards.  .  .  .  And  every  one  fell  to  consider  how 
he  might  best  gratify  his  curiosity,  if  he  were  possessed  of  that  art  [necromancy], 
what  persons  he  should  wake  from  the  shades  and  what  questions  he  should  put 
to  them. 

Then  arc  summoned  the  shades  of  Locke,  Newton,  and  others  men- 
tioned by  Ilazlitt  in  his  delightful  essay. 

212  1.  "  Come  like  shadows  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  IV,  i,  1 1 1. 

212  2  B :    Charles   T/amb.    This    essay   attempts   to   describe  a 

conversation  which  took  place  at  one  of  Lamb's  "  Wednesdays"  at  16 
Mitre  Court  Buildings,  where  Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister  Mary  lived 


374  SELECTIONS   FROM  HAZLITT 

from  1801  to  1809.  Though  Ilazlitt  says  this  discussion  took  place 
"twenty  years  ago,"  which  would  be  about  1806,  Mr.  Lucas  thinks  it 
may  have  been  as  late  as  18 14.    See  his  "  Life  of  Lamb,"  I,  380. 

212  3  Guy  Faux:  Guy  Fawkes  (1570-1606).  See  Hazlitt's  excellent 
articles  on  him,  Works,  XI,  317-334;  three  papers  that  appeared  in 
the  Exatniner,  November  11,  18,  25,  1821.  The  unsuccessful  attempt 
of  Fawkes  to  set  fire  to  the  House  of  Parliament  (November  5,  1605) 
started  the  celebration  which  is  observed  every  year.  In  every  town 
and  village  of  England  Fawkes  is  burned  in  effigy.  The  festivities  of 
the  day  resemble  those  of  the  Fourth  of  July  in  America. 

212  7  "Never  so  sure  our  rapture":  Pope,  "  Moral  Essays,"  II,  51. 

212  17  A  —  :  ^Yilliam  Ayrton  (1777-1858),  the  musician  and  musi- 
cal critic,  director  of  music  at  King's  Theater  and  editor  of  Charles 
Knight's  Musical  Library.  Hazlitt  called  him  "  the  Will  Honeycomb  of 
our  set."  He  was  a  friend  of  the  Burneys.  See  Lucas,  "  Life  of  Lamb," 
I,  237  ff. 

213  8  Kneller's  portraits :  the  portrait  of  Newton  is  at  Kade,  and  his 
best  portrait  of  Locke  is  at  Christ  College,  Oxford. 

213  21  Sir  Thomas  Brown  (1605-1682)  :  one  of  Charles  Lamb's  favor- 
ite writers,  author  of  "  Religio  Medici"  (1642)  and  "  Hydriotaphia  or 
Urn  Burial"  (1658).  See  the  letter,  probably  by  Mitford,  quoted  in 
Lucas,  "Life  of  Lamb,"  II,  168. 

213  21  Fulke  Greville  (i  554-1628) :  first  Lord  Brooke.  He  was  a  poet 
and  friend  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  whose  life  he 
wrote.  lie  held  important  positions,  including  that  of  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer.    Hazlitt  often  mentions  him  in  his  works. 

214  8  "'  And  call  up  him  who  left  half-told  "  :  "  II  Penseroso,"  11.  109- 

IIO. 

214  28  Dr.  Donne:  John  Donne  (1573-1631),  one  of  the  so-called 
metaphysical  poets,  to  whom  we  are  largely  indebted  for  the  use  of 
conceits  in  the  seventeenth  century.  See  the  edition  of  his  poems  by 
E.  K.  Chambers  in  the  Muses  Library. 

214  33  beauty  of  the  portrait :  see  note  on  p.  276,  Vol.  I, "  Memoirs 
of  Hazlitt": 

It  was  probably  the  edition  of  1669,  12  mo  ;  at  least  that  was  the  one  Lamb  had. 
There  were  in  it  many  notes  by  Coleridge,  and  this  memorandum  :  "  I  shall  die 
soon,  my  dear  Charles  Lamb,  and  then  you  will  not  be  vexed  that  I  have  be- 
scribbled  your  book."  —  S.  T.  C.  2d  May,  1811. 

216  3  "Here  lies  a  She-Sun":  "An  Epithalamion  on  Frederick 
Count  Palatine  of  the  Rhine  and  the  Lady  Elizabeth  being  married 
on  St.  Valentine's  Day,"  stanza  vii. 


NOTES  375 

215  8  "Lines  to  his  Mistress":  Donne's  poem  entitled  "Refusal  to 
allow  his  Voung  Wife  to  accompany  him  abroad  as  a  Page." 

216  23  Temple-walk  in  which  Chaucer :  Chaucer  as  Clerk  of  King's 
Works  at  Westminster.    See  Skeat,  "  Works  of  Chaucer,"  I,  xxxix. 

216  34  "  lisped  in  numbers  "  :  Pope,  "  Prologue  to  Satires,"  1.  128. 

217  4  interview  with  Petrarch :  an  editorial  footnote  appears  in  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine :  "  Query,  did  they  ever  meet  .> "  Even  to-day 
no  one  is  quite  sure  of  the  answer.  If  they  did  meet,  it  was  on  the 
occasion  of  Chaucer's  visit  to  Italy  in  1372-1373.  For  a  discussion  of 
this  question,  see  Skeat,  "Chaucer,"  I,  xxv ;  Lounsbury,  "  Studies  in 
Chaucer,"  I,  67  ff. 

217  6  the  author  of  the  Decameron  :  Giovanni  Boccaccio,  Italian  novelist 

(1313-1375)- 

217  8  Squire's  Tale :  the  story  of  the  falcon  in  "  The  Decameron," 

fifth  day,  ninth  stor)' ;  the  story  of  Friar  Albert,  ibid,  fourth  day,  second 

story,  etc. 

217  14  Cadmuses  :  a  reference  to  the  legend  of  the  killing  of  the  dragon 
by  Cadmus  and,  on  the  advice  of  Athena,  his  sowing  the  teeth,  out  of 
which  armed  men  grew  up.  Also  Cadmus  is  said  to  have  introduced 
into  Greece  from  Phoenicia  or  Egypt  an  alphabet  of  sixteen  letters. 

217  20  a  fine  portrait  of  Ariosto  :  See  Works,  XII,  424.  Note  by 
Waller  and  Glover: 

Hazlitt  probably  refers  to  the  Portrait  of  a  Poet  in  the  National  Gallery,  now 
ascribed  to  Palma.   Titian's  portrait  of  Aretine  is  in  the  Pitti  Gallerj'. 

217  34  "  creature  of  the  element  "  :  "  Comus,"  11.  299-301. 

218  5  "  That  was  Arion  crowned  "  :  "  Faerie  Queene,"  Book  IV, 
canto  xi,  stanza  23. 

218  7  Captain  C:  Captain  James  Burney,  son  of  Dr.  Burney,  brother 
of  Fanny  Burney,  the  writer,  and  a  very  intimate  friend  of  the  Lambs. 
M.  C.  was  Martin  Burney,  son  of  Captain  Burney,  or,  as  he  came  to  be, 
Rear  Admiral  Burney.  He  was  a  member  of  the  party  that  visited  the 
Hazlitts  at  Winterslow  (see  Introduction,  p.  xxiv). 

218  8  the  Wandering  Jew  :  the  legend  is  that  Christ,  bearing  his  cross 
to  Calvary,  asked  to  rest  at  the  stall  of  a  shoemaker.  The  latter  struck 
him  and  bade  him  go  on.  As  a  punishment  he  was  never  to  die,  but  was 
to  walk  the  earth  till  the  Judgment  Day.  Eugene  Sue  has  treated  the 
story  in  his  novel,"  Le  Juif  errant." 

218  10  Pope  talking  with  Patty  Blount:  Martha  Blount  (1690-1762) 
was  a  friend  of  Pope.  To  her  Pope  left  most  of  his  possessions  when 
he  died. 


lyG  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

218  10  Miss  D :    Mrs.   Reynolds.    See  "  Literary  Remains,"  IL 

342.  This  was  the  lady  who  had  been  Lamb's  schoolmistress.  Her 
maiden  name  was  Chambers,  possibly  "  prim  Betsy  Chambers "  of 
Lamb's  "  Gone  or  Going."  See  Lucas, "  Life  of  Lamb,"  L  38  ;  also  380  ff. 

218  17  Scotland  with  the  Pretender :  the  French  victory  at  Fontenoy, 
May  31,  1745,  encouraged  Charles  Edward  Stuart  and  the  Jacobites  in 
Scotland  to  push  forward.  This  movement  resulted  in  the  battle  at 
Culloden  Moor,  January  23,  1746.  See  Boswell,  "Johnson"  (edited  by 
Hill),  L  176  ff. 

219  'i  Lord  Cornbury  :  Henry  Hyde  (1710-1753),  friend  of  Bolingbroke 
and  Lady  Montagu. 

219  5  "Despise  low  joys  "  :  "  Imitations  of  Horace,"  Book  L  epistle  vi, 
11.  60-61. 

219 '.I  Lord  Mansfield  {1733-1S21):  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the  Court 
of  (.■ommon  Pleas. 

219  VI  "  Conspicuous  scene  "  :   ibid.  11.  50-53. 

219  18  "Why  rail  they  then"  :  "  Epilogue  to  Satires,"  Dialogue  H, 
11.  138-139. 

219  22  "  But  why  then  publish"  :  "Prologue  to  Satires,"  11.  135-146. 

220  14  Gay's  verses  to  him :  "  Mr.  Pope's  Welcome  from  Greece. 
A  Copy  of  Verses  written  by  Mr.  Gay  upon  Mr.  Pope's  having  finished 
his  Translation  of  Homer's  Iliad.  "  See  Gay's  Poems  (edited  by  Under- 
hill),  I,  207. 

220  21  E :    Erasmus  Phillips ;  this  name  is  given  in  "  Literary 

Remains,"  II,  346.  If  this  is  correct,  it  was  the  Phillips  who  was  a  very 
intimate  friend  of  the  Burneys.  This  may  be  the  one  who  with  Martin 
Burney  and  the  I^ambs  visited  the  Ilazlitts  at  Winterslow. 

2211)  "nigh-sphered  in  Heaven":  Collins,  "Ode  on  the  Poetical 
Character,"  1.  66. 

221  13  J.  F :   Barron  Field  (1 786-1 846).  See"  Literary  Remains," 

II,  347.  He  was  a  lawyer  and  miscellaneous  writer.  He  was  the  friend 
with  initials  "  B.  F."  who  accompanied  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  to 
Hertfordshire.    See  "  Essays  of  Elia." 

221  IG  Wildair:  "Sir  Harry  Wildair"  (1701),  by  George  Farquhar. 
221  1(5  Abel  Drugger :  in  Ben  Jonson's  "Alchemist"  (1610). 
221  21  Barry,  and  Quin :  actors,  rivals  of  Garrick. 
221  21  Shuter  :  comic  actor  of  the  same  time. 

22121  Weston:  Thomas  Weston  (1737-1776),  one  of  the  best 
comedians  of  his  time. 

221  22  Mrs.  Clive  :   called  Kitty  (Hive,  in  comedy. 
221  22  Mrs.  Pritchard  :  famous  as  Lady  Macbeth. 


NOTES  377 

222  2  astus:   the  genuine  fire  of  the  actor. 

222  S  suddenly  missed  Garrick  :  many  such  anecdotes  are  told  of  Gar- 
rick.    See  Percy  Fitzgerald,  "  David  Garrick  "  (edition  of  1899),  pp.  21  5  ff. 

222  15  Roscius :  friend  of  C'icero  and  greatest  comic  actor  of  Rome. 

222  '2'.'>  Mustapha  and  Alaham :  both  are  tragedies  by  Fulke  Greville 
(Lord    Brooke). 

222  25  Kit   Marlowe :    the    familiar   name    of  Christopher    Marlowe 

(1564-159.))- 

222  25  the    sexton   of   St.    Ann's :    Ilazlitt   is   buried    in    St.    Anne's 

Church,  Soho,  London. 

223  4  G :  William  Godwin.    See  '"  Literary  Remains,"  II,  350. 

223  5  his  romantic  visit  to  Drummond  :  between  September,  161 8,  and 

January  19,  1619,  Ben  Jonson  went  to  visit  the  poet  Urummond  of 
Hawthornden.  The  notes  which  Drummond  made  of  their  talk  form  the 
main  source  of  the  biography  of  Jonson.  See  "Conversations  with 
Drummond  of  Hawthornden"  (edited  by  Laing). 

223  8  Eugene  Aram  (1704-17  59)  :  he  was  hanged  for  the  murder  of 
Daniel  Clark.  He  was  a  great  scholar  and  was  the  source  of  the  highly 
idealized  portrait  in  Bulwer  Lytton's  novel  of  the  same  name  (1S32). 

223  '.I  "Admirable  Crichton":  James  Crichton(i 560-1 5S5  ?),  surnamed 
The  Admirable,  or  the  Wonderful,  by  Sir  Thomas  Urquhart  in  1652. 
He  was  a  remarkable  writer  and  scholar.  Mr.  J.  M.  Barrie  has  written 
a  delightful  play  about  him. 

223  15  H :   Leigh  Hunt.    See  "  Literary  Remains,"  II,  355. 

223  22  Jonathan  Edwards  (1703-1758)  :  American  theologian  and 
philosopher,  author  of  "  Freedom  of  the  Will"  (1754). 

224  18  DugaldStewart(i753-i828):  distinguishedScottishphilosopher. 
224  it  J :  J  has  not  been  identified. 

224  11  Thomas  Aquinas  and  Duns  Scotus  :  both  scholastic  philosophers, 
the  former  of  the  thirteenth  and  the  latter  of  the  ninth  century. 

224  21  Duchess  of  Bolton:  Lavinia  Fenton  (1708-1760)  played  first 
the  part  of  Polly  in  Gay's  "  Beggar's  Opera  "  (1728). 

224  22  Steele  and  Addison  :  Captain  Sentry  in  "  Spectator,"  No.  2. 

224  25  Otway  and  Chatterton  :  Thomas  Otway  (1652-1685),  poet  and 
tragic  dramatist.  Thomas  Chatterton  (1752-1770),  the  boy  poet,  author 
of  "  The  Rowley  Poems." 

224  27  Thomson  fell  asleep:  James  Thomson  (1700-1748),  author  of 
"  The  .Seasons,"  was  proverbially  indolent. 

224  2'.)  John  Barleycorn :  Barleycorn  is  personification  of  malt  liquor 
as  made  from  barley.  See  Burns's  poem,  "  John  Barleycorn  :  a  Ballad," 
I,  33-35  (Aldine  edition). 


378  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

225  9  Fornarina :  she  is  said  to  have  been  a  baker's  daughter  with 
the  name  Margherita,  and  is  commonly  called  Raphael's  mistress.  The 
name  was  given  to  Raphael's  famous  picture  about  1750. 

225  fl  Lucretia  Borgia  (i  480-1 519) :  the  daughter  of  Cardinal  Borgia, 
who  afterwards  became  Pope  Alexander  VI.  She  played  an  important 
part  in  the  history  of  her  day. 

225  10  model  of  St.  Peter's:  Michelangelo  (1475-1564)  became  archi- 
tect of  St.  Peter's,  Rome,  January  i,  1547. 

225  24  Giotto  Di  Bondone  (d.  1337),  Giovanni  Cimabue  (1240-1302), 
Ghirlandaio  (Domenico  Bigarde)  (1449-1494) :  early  Florentine  painters 
whose  work  was  the  inspiration  for  the  greater  masters  who  succeeded 
them. 

225  27  "  Whose  names  on  earth  "  :  Ilazlitt  liked  to  quote  these  lines, 
which  he  thought  belonged  to  Dante.  Waller  and  Glover  print  a  few 
sentences  from  Lamb's  letter  to  Bernard  Barton  (February  17,  1823), 
which  seem  to  offer  an  explanation :  "  I  once  quoted  two  lines  from  a 
translation  of  Dante,  which  Hazlitt  very  greatly  admired,  and  quoted  in 
a  book,  as  proof  of  the  stupendous  power  of  that  poet ;  but  no  such  lines 
are  to  be  found  in  the  translation,  which  has  been  searched  for  the 
purpose.  I  must  have  dreamed  them,  for  I  am  quite  certain  I  did  not 
forge  them  knowingly.  What  a  misfortune  to  have  a  lying  memory  " 
(Ilazlitt,  Works,  X,  405-406). 

226  2  "Legend  of  Good  Women  "  :  Chaucer's  work,  written  about  1385. 
See  Skeat,  "  Works  of  Chaucer,"  Vol.  III. 

226  8  Duchess  of  Newcastle  :  Margaret  Cavendish,  Duchess  of  New- 
castle (1624-1674),  writer  of  plays,  poems,  and  letters.  She  was  much 
admired  in  her  day. 

226  8  Mrs.  Hutchinson:  Lucy  Hutchinson  (b.  1620),  a  most  interest- 
ing and  well-educated  woman  of  the  seventeenth  century.  She  wrote 
the  life  of  her  husband,  the  Puritan  colonel,  in  1 664-1 671,  but  it  was 
not  published  till  1806. 

226  11  one  in  the  room  :  Mary  Lamb. 

226  14  Ninon  de  L'Enclos  (1615-1705),  the  typical  Frenchwoman  of 
the  gay  seventeenth-century  society  as  well  as  the  leader  of  fashion  in 
Paris  and  the  friend  of  wits  and  poets.  Especially  noteworthy  is  her 
long  friendship  with  Saint-fivremond. 

226  28  Tamerlane  :  Timur  Lang,  the  renowned  oriental  conqueror 
of  the  fourteenth  century.  The  name  has  become  vulgarized  into 
Tamerlane  or  Tamberlane.  lie  has  been  a  popular  subject  for  trag- 
edy. "  Monk  "  Lewis's  "  Timour,"  Marlowe's  "  Tamburlaine,"  Rowe's 
"  Tamerlane." 


NOTES  379 

226  28  Ghengis  Khan:  Jenghiz  Khan  (i  162-1227),  ruler  of  the  Mon- 
gols, one  of  the  greatest  conquerors  that  the  world  has  ever  seen. 

226  ;54  "Yourmost  exquisite  reason":  "Twelfth  Night,"  II,  iii,  153. 

227  14  Leonardo  :  the  famous  picture  of  "  The  Last  Supper  "  by  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci  (1452-1519),  painted  on  the  refectory  wall  of  the  Convent 
of  Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie  at  Milan. 

227  17  Menenius  :  Menenius  Agrippa  in  Shakspere's  "  Coriolanus," 
II,  i. 

227  19  continued  H :  in  "  Literary  Remains  "  and  "  Winterslow  " 

this  speech  is  given  to  Lamb.  This  has  been  done  in  almost  every 
reprint  of  the  essay,  likewise  in  Lucas,  "  Life  of  Lamb,"  I,  388.  It 
seems,  however,  that  the  following  note  by  Waller  and  Glover,  Works, 
XII,  476,  is  the  better  explanation  : 

The  Magazine  clearly  gives  it  to  H ,  that  is,  Leigh  Hunt.    It  is,  of  course, 

conceivable  that  the  editor  of  "  Literary  Remains  "  silendy  corrected  an  error  in 
the  Magazine,  but  that  does  not  seem  likely,  because,  in  the  first  place,  the  speech 
seems  more  characteristic  of  Hunt  than  of  Lamb,  and  secondly,  because  the  vol- 
ume of  the  Nnv  Monthly  (XVI)  in  which  the  essay  appeared  contains  a  list  of 
errata  in  which  two  corrections  (one  of  them  relating  to  initials)  are  made  in  the 
essay  and  yet  this  "  H "  is  left  uncorrected. 

ON  THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH 

This  essay  appeared  in  the  Monthly  Magazine,  March,  1827.  It  was 
first  republished  with  many  changes  in  Hazlitt's  "  Literary  Remains  " 
(1S36),  as  Essay  XV. 

228  1  "Life  is  a  pure  flame":  Thomas  IJrowne,  "' Ilydriotaphia," 
chap.  V. 

228  3  my  brother's  :  John  Ilazlitt  (i  767-1837),  the  painter.  See  Intro- 
duction, pp.  xi  and  xv. 

228  10  "  The  vast  "  :  cf.  Addison,  "  Cato,"  V,  i. 

228  17  "  Bidding  the  lovely  scenes  "  :   Collins,  "  The  Passions,"  1.  32. 

229  17  "  this  sensible,  warm  motion  "  :  "  Measure  for  Measure,"  III,  i, 
120. 

230  1  ""  wine  of  life  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  II,  iii,  76. 

230  13  the  foolish  fat  scullion  :  "  Tristram  Shandy.  '  Book  V,  chap.  vii. 

230  note  Joseph  Fawcett  (1758  .'-1804)  :  dissenting  minister  and  poet. 
He  became  a  very  popular  preacher  in  London.  Mrs.  Siddons  and  the 
Kembles  are  said  to  have  been  frequent  visitors  to  his  church.  Ilis 
"  Art  of  War"  was  published  in  1795,  ""^  '794-  as  Ilazlitt  says. 

231  13  ""  the  feast  of  reason  "  :  Tope,  "  Imitations  of  Horace,"  Satire 
I,  128. 


38o  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

232  3  "The  stockdove":  Thomson,  "The  Castle  of  Indolence," 
Canto  i,  stanza  4. 

232  note  Lady  Wortley  Montague  (i  690-1 762):  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing women  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Her  letters  have  given  her  a  high 
place  among  the  letter  writers  of  the  world.  For  her  comments  on  Field- 
ing and  Richardson,  see  especially  the  letters  dated  December  14,  1750, 
December  8,  1751,  October  20,  1752,  June  23,  1754,  September  22,  1755. 

232  note  effendi:  "a  Turkish  title  of  respect,  chiefly  applied  to  govern- 
ment officials  and  to  members  of  the  learned  professions"  (New  Eng- 
lish Dictionary).    See  Lady  Montagu's  Letter,  May  17,  1717. 

232  note  "  had  it  not  been  "  :  Works,  II,  254. 

232  note  she  says  of  Richardson  :  II,  222  and  285. 

233  note  monstrum  ingens,  biforme:  ^neid,  III,  658. 

233  note  Mr.  Moore:  Thomas  Moore  (1779-1852).  See  Hazlitt's 
essay  in  the  "  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  IV,  353. 

233  note  Lady  Mary  :   Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu.    See  above. 

234  30  Cathedral  at  Peterborough :  Hazlitt's  father  and  mother  were 
married  at  Peterborough,  January  19,  1766.  See  Introduction,  p.  ix.  He 
came  back  to  the  place  probably  in  the  years  when  he  lived  at  Wem, 
perhaps  in  1796.    See  Introduction,  p.  xv. 

In  the  south  aisle  of  the  Peterborough  Cathedral  is  a  monument 
marking  the  former  resting  place  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  By  order 
of  her  son,  James  I,  in  161 2,  her  remains  were  removed  to  the  Chapel 
of  Henry  VII  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

235  18  "the  purple  light  of  love":  Gray,  "The  Progress  of  Poesy," 

1.41: 

The  bloom  of  young  Desire  and  purple  light  of  Love. 

235  31  "the  Raphael  grace  "  :   Pope,  "  Moral  Essays,"  VIII,  36. 

236  2  "  gain  a  new  vigour  "  :   Cowper,  "  Charity,"  1.  104. 

237  33  "  From  the  dungeon  "  :  Coleridge,  "  Sonnet  to  Schiller."  See 
"  On  Reading  Old  Books,"  p.  102. 

238  4  Don  Carlos  :  see  "  On  the  Fear  of  Death,"  p.  120. 

238  13  my  miniature-picture :  one  which  was  painted  by  his  brother 
while  the  Hazlitts  were  in  America.  It  is  mentioned  in  "  Liber  Amoris," 
Letter  VI. 

238  22  "  That  time  is  past "  :  Wordsworth,  "  Tintern  Abbey,"  11.  83-85. 

239  10  "  Even  from  the  tomb  "  :  Gray,  "  Elegy,"  11.  91-92. 

239  IS  "  all  the  life  of  life  "  :  see  Burns,  "  Lament  for  James." 

239  27  "From  the  last  dregs":  I  )ryden,  "Aurengzebe,"  Act  IV,  scene  i. 

240  20  "  treason  domestic  "  :  "Macbeth,"  111,  ii,  24-25. 

240  ;!2  "  reverbs  its  own  hoUowness  "  :  "  l^ing  Lear,"  I,  i,  145. 


NOTES  381 

ON  READING  NEW  BOOKS 

This  essay  first  appeared  in  the  Monthly  Magazine  for  July,  1827. 
It  was  published  with  some  changes  in  "  Sketches  and  Essays  "  (1839). 
This  paper  was  written  during  the  author's  stay  at  Florence  in  May, 
1825.  See  "  Memoirs,"  II,  154.  The  present  text  is  a  reprint  from  the 
magazine. 

242  7  Sir  Walter  writes  no  more  :  Scott  died  in  1832,  seven  years  after 
the  writing  of  this  essay.  "  The  Betrothed "  and  "  The  Talisman " 
appeared  in  1825,  "Woodstock,"  "Fair  Maid  of  Perth,"  "Anne  of 
Geierstein "  were  the  important  books  of  those  seven  years. 

242  S  Lord  Byron  :  Byron  had  lived  abroad  seven  or  eight  years  and 
had  died  in  Greece  on  the  nineteenth  of  April,  1824. 

242  note  The  complete  sentence  was,  "  And  give  me  leave  to  tell 
your  lordships,  by  the  way,  that  statutes  are  not  like  women,  for  they 
are  not  yet  the  worse  for  being  old  "  ("  Speech  on  the  Dissolution  of 
Parliament"  (1676),  included  in  Ilazlitt's  "Eloquence  of  the  British 
Senate").  George  ViUiers,  second  Duke  of  Buckingham  (1627-1688), 
is  famous  for  having  written  "  The  Rehearsal." 

244  1   "  has  just  come  "  :  "  Richard  III,"  I,  i,  21. 

244  17  to  give  sentence  of  life  or  death :  this  phrase  was  none  too 
strong  for  Hazlitt,  who  after  many  experiences  had  suffered  from  preju- 
diced criticism. 

244  31  circulating  libraries  :  see  the  interesting  account  of  the  "  Books 
of  Lydia  Languish's  Circulating  Library,"  in  G.  II.  Nettleton's  "The 
Major  Dramas  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan."  See  introduction, 
pp.  Ixviii-lxxvii   (Ginn  and  Company). 

245  1  the  Waverley  romances :  published  anonymously  until  1S27, 
when  Scott  publicly  confessed  at  the  dinner  given  for  the  benefit  of 
the  Edinburgh  Theatrical  Fund,  February  23,  1827. 

246  12  Manuscript  of  Cicero's:  Cardinal  Angelo  Mala  (1782-1854),  an 
Italian  cardinal,  noted  as  a  philologist  and  antiquary,  discovered  various 
manuscripts  and  pamphlets  and  edited  Cicero's  "  De  Republica." 

246  15  A  Noble  Lord :  the  Marquis  of  Blandford  bought  Valdorfer's 
edition  of  Boccaccio  for  ,^2260  at  the  Roxburghe  Sale  in  1812. 

246  23  Mr.  Thomas  Taylor :  Thomas  Taylor  (175S-1835),  the  Platonist. 
"  The  old  Duke  of  Norfolk  (Bernard  Edward,  twelfth  Duke,  1765-1842) 
was  his  patron  and  locked  up  nearly  the  whole  of  Taylor's  edition  of 
Plato  (5  vols..  1804)  in  his  library."    See  Works,  note  xii,  484. 

246  note  Critique  of  Pure  Reason :  the  famous  philosophical  treatise 
by  Kant  in  1783  and  second  edition  with  modifications  in  1787. 


382  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

247  2  Ireland's  celebrated  .  .  .  forgery  :  the  forgery,  "  Vortigern,"  by 
William  Henry  Ireland  (1777-1835),  was  produced  by  the  famous  actor, 
Kemble,  at  Drury  Lane  Theater  on  April  2,  1796.  After  a  visit  to 
Stratford  in  1794  Ireland  had  begun  a  series  of  forgeries  of  mortgage 
deeds,  a  transcript  of  "  Lear,"  extract  from  "  Hamlet,"  a  new  blank-verse 
play  in  Shakspere's  handwriting,  called  "  Vortigern  "  and  "  Rowena." 
The  analysis  of  this  play  led  to  a  complete  exposure  of  the  fraud. 
For  a  satisfactory  account  see  J.  A.  Farrer,  "Literary  Forgeries," 
chap.  xiv. 

247  note  G.  D. :  Lamb's  friend  George  Dyer  (1755-1841).  His  "  His- 
tory of  the  University  and  Colleges  of  Cambridge  "  was  published  in 
two  volumes  in  1814.  See  a  most  interesting  chapter  on  Dyer  in  Lucas, 
"  Life  of  Lamb,"  I,  144-167.  Lamb  conferred  immortality  upon  him  in 
his  essays,  "  Oxford  in  the  Vacation"  and  "Amicus  Redivivus." 

In  reference  to  the  number  of  corrections  in  the  "  History,"  Lamb 
called  Dyer  "  Cancellarius  Major."  Hazlitt's  essay,  "  On  the  Look  of  a 
Gentleman  "  (1821),  speaks  of  Dyer  as  one  of  "  God  Almighty's  Gentle- 
men."   See  Works,  VII,  219-220. 

247  note  Another  friend  :  Leigh  Hunt.  See  his  essay,  "Jack  Abbot's 
Breakfast." 

247  note  Peel's  cofiee-house  :  this  was  one  of  the  coffeehouses  of  the 
Johnsonian  period  at  Nos.  177-178  Fleet  Street,  east  corner  of  Fetter 
Lane.  Here  was  long  preserved  a  portrait  of  Dr.  Johnson,  on  the  key- 
stone of  a  chimney  piece,  said  to  have  been  painted  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds.    See  Timbs,  "Club  Life  in  London,"  p.  361. 

248  3  Buonaparte  .  .  .  was  fond  of  it :  Hazlitt  said  that  this  was  one 
reason  why  he  liked  Napoleon. 

248  16  We  may  observe  of  late  a  strong  craving  after  Memoirs :  per- 
haps a  reference  to  Walter  Savage  Landor's  "  Imaginary  Conversations," 
the  first  series  of  which  appeared  in  1824.  Landor  began  these  at 
Florence,  where  Hazlitt  in  May,  1825,  wrote  this  essay. 

248 '-'2  Petrarch  and  Laura:  Petrarch  (1304-1374),  the  celebrated 
Italian  poet  and  humanist  and  friend  of  Dante.  It  was  not  uncommon 
for  poets  in  the  Middle  Ages  to  choose  some  lady  to  whom  homage 
might  be  paid  in  sonnet  or  other  lyric  poems;  for  example,  I'etrarch  and 
Laura,  Dante  and  Beatrice,  &c. 

248  2."5  Abelard  and  Eloise :  Abelard  was  a  distinguished  French 
scholar  and  preceptor  of  the  twelfth  century.  Of  his  love  for  Heloise, 
the  abbess,  many  poems  have  been  written.  Especially  well  known  is 
Tope's  poem.  The  letters  of  the  two  lovers  have  been  frequently 
printed. 


NOTES  383 

248  30  Lucan  (39-65  a.d.)  :  a  Latin  poet  and  prose  writer,  author  of 
"  Pharsalia,"  an  epic  poem  in  ten  books  dealing  with  the  civil  war 
between  Caesar  and  Pompey. 

The  passage  in  Rowe's  translation  is  as  follows : 

Ah  !  my  once  greatest  lord  !  ah,  cruel  hour ! 
Is  thy  victorious  head  in  fortune's  power? 
Since  miseries  my  baneful  love  pursue, 
Why  did  I  wed  thee,  only  to  undo? 
But  see,  to  death,  my  willing  neck  1  bow ; 
Atone  the  angry  gods  by  one  kind  blow. 

249  8  "  proud  as  when  blue  Iris  bends  "  :  "Troilus  and  Cressida,"  I,  iii, 
380. 

251  24  Sadler's  Wells  or  the  Adelphi :  two  theaters  of  the  time.  The 
former  was  first  built  in  1753  on  the  site  of  a  medicinal  well  discovered 
in  1683  by  a  Mr.  Sadler.  The  Adelphi  was  built  on  the  Strand,  London, 
in  1806,  and  was  the  "home  of  melodrama  and  screaming  farce."  In 
Walter  Scott's  "  Diary"  this  is  spoken  of  as  Dan  Ferry's  Theater,  called 
the  Adelphi:  "supping  on  oysters  and  porter  in  honest  Dan  Ferry's 
house,  like  a  squirrel's  cage,  above  the  Adelphi  Theater"  (Lockhart, 

IV,  75)- 

251  2(i  "full  of  wise  saws  "  :  "  As  You  Like  It,"  II,  vii,  156. 

252  3  euphuism :  a  common  noun  from  John  Lyly's  celebrated  romance 
"  Euphues  "  ( 1 578-1 579).  The  book  portrayed  the  exaggerated  style  of 
language  of  the  day  and  had  a  strong,  though  brief,  influence  upon  lit- 
erary fashions.  For  satiric  treatment  of  euphuism,  see  Shakspere's 
"  Love's  Labour 's  Lost."  Sir  Walter  Scott  showed  a  mistaken  concep- 
tion of  euphuism  in  "The  Monastery."  The  best  study  of  the  book  and 
the  fashion  it  presented  is  by  Friedrich  Landmann  in  "Der  Euphuis- 
mus,  sein  Wesen,  seine  Quelle,  seine  Geschichte."   Giessen,  1881. 

252  14  Rossini  (1792-1868) :  celebrated  Italian  composer,  well  known 
in  London  about  1823. 

252  18  "an  insolent  piece  of  paper":  Massinger's  "A  New  Way  to 
Pay  Old  Debts,"  Act  IV,  scene  iii,  where  the  line  reads  "  a  piece  of  ar- 
rogant paper."  Mr.  J.  Rogers  Rees  has  called  my  attention  to  a  copy  of 
this  play  (in  his  possession)  which  Ilazlitt  edited,  with  an  introduction, 
in  1817. 

252  20  Longinus  (210-273)  :  Greek  critic  and  philosopher  who  is  sup- 
posed to  have  written  the  essay  "  On  the  Sublime."  For  the  reference 
see  section  ix. 

252  31  Irving's  Orations:  see  above,  p.  343.  See  also  Hazlitt's  essay  on 
Irving  in  his  "  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  IV,  222. 


384  SELECTIONS   FROM  HAZLITT 

252  ;5;?  Voltaire's  jests  and  the  Jew's  Letters:  Voltaire  maintained 
that  the  Jews  were  the  enemies  of  the  human  race.  See  "  CEuvres  " 
(edited  by  Baudoin,  1826),  XX,  396,  455.  Dr.  Phihp  le  Fanu  published 
in  1777  a  translation  of  the  Abbe  Guenee's  "  Lettres  de  certaines  juives 
a  M.  Voltaire." 

253  2  Rent  and  the  Poor-Laws  :  that  was  a  seething  time  for  the  Eng- 
lish government,  and  these  were  great  questions.  It  was  not  until  1832 
that  the  New  Reform  Bill  became  a  law.  The  New  Poor  Law  was 
enacted  in   1834. 

253  5  Pascal's  Provincial  Letters:  Pascal  (1623-1662),  the  French 
geometrician  and  philosopher,  wrote  eighteen  letters  over  the  nom  de 
plume,  Louis  de  Montalte,  professedly  to  a  friend  in  the  provinces. 
Hence  the  epistles  are  known  as  '"  Les  Provinciales."  They  defended 
the  doctrine  of  the  Port-Royal  monastery  against  the  Jesuits. 

253  7  Princess  of  Cleves:  "  La  Princesse  de  Cleves,"  a  novel  (1677) 
by  Madame  de  La  Fayette,  deals  with  the  court  of  Henry  II  and  Mary 
Stuart. 

253  32  flocci-nauci:  see  Shenstone's  Letter  XXI  (1741)  : 

For  whatever  the  world  might  esteem  in  poor  Somerville,  1  really  find  that  I 
loved  him  for  nothing  so  much  as  his  flocci-nauci-nihili-pili-fication  of  money. 

Shenstone's  Works  (edition  of  1777). 

253  34  "  flames  in  the  forehead  "  :  "  Lycidas,"  1.  171. 

254  29  Condorcet  (1743-1794)  :  French  mathematician,  interested  in 
political  economy  and  theology.  See  Dowden,  "  French  Literature," 
p.  255: 

Condorcet  .  .  .  bringing  together  the  ideas  of  economists  and  historians,  traced 
human  progress  through  the  past  and  uttered  ardent  prophecies  of  human  per- 
fectibility in  the  future. 

254  note  This  note  was  omitted  from  the  reprint  in  "'  Sketches  and 
Essays"  (1S39). 

255  7  The  Enquiry  concerning  Political  Justice :  published  in  1793. 

255  21  "By  Heavens  I'd  rather  be":  Wordsworth's  sonnet,  "The 
world   is  too  much  with  us." 

256  2  "trampled  under  the  hoofs":  see  Burke,  "Reflections  on  the 
Revolution  in  France  "  (edited  by  Payne),  II,  93. 

257  note  sent  to  Coventry:  see  New  English  Dictionary: 

To  send  (a  person)  to  Coventry  ;  to  exclude  him  from  the  society  of  which 
he  is  a  member  on  account  of  objectionable  conduct ;  to  refuse  to  associate  with 
him. 

See  also  Notes  and  Queries,  ninth  series,  IV,  264,  335. 


NOTES  385 

257  note  Parthian  retreat :  see  Smith's  "  Classical  Dictionary  "  : 

The  Parthians  were  a  very  warlike  people,  and  were  especially  celebrated  as 
horse-archers.  Their  tactics  became  so  celebrated  as  to  pass  into  a  proverb. 
Their  mail-clad  horsemen  spread  like  a  cloud  round  the  hostile  army,  and  poured 
in  a  shower  of  darts,  and  then  evaded  any  closer  conflict  by  a  rapid  flight,  during 
which  they  still  shot  their  arrows  back  upon  the  enemy. 

257  note  Queen's  Matrimonial  Ladder  :  one  of  William  Hone's  (1780- 
1842)  squibs  published  in  1S20  and  illustrated  with  cuts  by  Cruikshank. 
The  complete  title  was  "  The  Queen's  Matrimonial  Ladder,  a  National 
Toy,  with  Fourteen  Step  Scenes  and  Illustrations  in  Verse."  This  refers 
to  Queen  Caroline.  See  "  Dictionary  of  National  Biography  "  for  an 
interesting  account  of  the  stormy  life  of  Hone. 


ON  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE 

This  paper  first  appeared  in  the  jVew  Monthly  Magazine  for  August, 
1827.    It  was  republished  in  "  Sketches  and  Essays." 

260  25  "  discourse  of  reason  "  :  see  "  Hamlet,"  I,  ii,  1 50. 

261  33  Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence  :  canto  i,  stanza  64. 

264  15  sent  to  Coventry :  Ilazlitt  likes  to  use  this  phrase.  See  p.  257 
and  note. 

264  22  "  into  our  heart  of  hearts  "  :  "  Hamlet,"  III,  ii,  78. 

264  27  "  that  enrich  the  shops  "  :  Roscommon's  translation  of  Horace's 
"  Art  of  Poetry." 

264  30  "That  bring  their  authors":  the  source  of  this  quotation  is 
unknown. 

265  11  Walton's  Angler:  "The  Compleat  Angler"  first  appeared  in 
1653;  it  was  greatly  altered  in  the  second  edition  in  1655.  Editions  and 
reprints  innumerable  have  been  published  since  that  time. 

265  12  ""  That  dallies  "  :  "  Twelfth  Night,"  II,  iv,  49  : 

And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love 
Like  the  old  age. 

267  5  "  Wit  at  the  helm  "  :  Gray,  "  The  Bard,"  1.  74  : 
Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm. 

267  12  a  butt,  according  to  the  Spectator:  see  "Spectator,"  No.  47, 
April  24,  171 1,  a  paper  on  laughter: 

I  mean  those  honest  gentlemen  that  are  always  exposed  to  the  wit  and  raillery 
of  their  well-wishers  and  companions ;  that  are  pelted  by  men,  women  and  chil- 
dren, friends  and  foes,  and  in  a  word,  stand  as  ''  butts  "  in  conversation,  for  ever)'- 
one  to  shoot  at  that  pleases. 


386  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

268  1  dedicated  his  Cain  :  "  Cain,  A  Mystery"  was  begun  on  July  i6, 
1821,  and  finished  September  9,  and  was  published  in  December.  The 
publication  of  the  poem  brought  forth  hostile  reviews  and  attacks.  Scott 
cordially  accepted  the  dedication. 

270  4  "hew  you  as  a  carcase  "  :  "Julius  Caesar,"  II,  i,  174. 

270  14  tempora  mollia  fandi :  .-lineid,  IV,  293-294: 

The  favorable  times  or  occasions  for  speaking. 

270  32  "Not  to  admire  "  :  Pope,  "  Imitations  of  Horace,"  Sixth  Epistle 
of  the  First  Book,  11.  1-2. 

271  4  Westminster  School  of  Reform :  the  Westminster  Review  was 
established  in  1823  by  Jeremy  Bentham  (1748-1832)  and  others.  This 
paper  gave  a  great  impetus  to  Radicalism  through  the  contribution  of 
Bowring,  the  first  editor,  James  and  John  Stuart  Mill,  and  others. 

271  8  the  Scotch,  as  a  nation  :  see  a  very  uncomplimentary  essay  on 
"The  Scotch  Character"  by  Hazlitt,  published  in  the  Liberal  (1822) 
and  republished  for  the  first  time  in  Works,  XII,  253-259.  Lamb  had 
something  of  the  same  aversion  as  expressed  in  his  Ella  essay,  "  Im- 
perfect Sympathies  "  :  "I  have  been  trying  all  my  life  to  like  Scotch- 
men." 

271  21  "  milk  of  human  kindness  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  I,  v,  15. 


ON  A  SUN-DIAL 

This  paper  was  first  published  in  the  A'ew  Mo7ithly  Magazine,  Octo- 
ber, 1827,  and  was  republished  in  "  Sketches  and  Essays"  (1839).  It  is 
said  to  have  been  written  in  1825. 

274  1  "  To  carve  out  dials  "  :  "3  Henry  VI,"  II,  v,  24. 

274  14  along  the  Brenta :  on  his  trip  to  the  Continent  (August,  1824, 
to  October,  1825)  Hazlitt  went  through  France  and  Italy.  The  reference 
here  is  to  his  trip  from  Padua  to  Venice,  Works,  IX,  266. 

275  11  "  morals  on  the  time  "  :  "  As  You  Like  It,"  II,  vii,  29. 

277  G  L' Amour  fait  passer :  "love  makes  the  time  pass,"  which  the 
wits  travestied  into  "  Time  makes  love  pass  (away)." 

277  18  "How  sweet  the  moonlight "  :   "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  V,  i,  54. 

278  22  the  account  given  by  Rousseau :  probably  the  story  told  in 
"  I>es  Confessions,"  Partie  II,  Liv.  XI. 

278  .'50  "Allans,  monfils"  :   See  "'  Pes  Confessions,"  Partie  I,  Livre  I : 

Come,  my  son,  I  am  more  a  child  than  you. 

279  it  "  lend  it  both  an  understanding  "  :  '"  Hamlet,"  I,  ii,  250. 


NOTES  Z?>7 

279  28  '"  with  its  brazen  throat  "  :  "  King  John,"  III,  iii,    37-39  '■ 

if  the  midnight  bell, 
Did  with  his  iron  tongue  and  brazen  mouth 
Sound  on  into  the  drowsy  ear  of  night. 

279  :50  "  swinging  slow  "  :  "II  Penseroso,"  1.  76. 

280  G  I  confess,  nothing  .  .  .  interests  me :  see  Hazlitt's  essays,  "  On 
the  Feeling  of  Immortality  in  Youth,"  pp.  228  ff.,  and  "On  the  Past 
and  Future,"  pp.  142  ff. 

280  15  Even  George  IV. :  this  sentence  is  omitted  from  the  reprint  in 
"  Sketches  and  Essays." 

281  15  "  the  poor  man's  only  music  "  :  Coleridge,  "  Frost  at  Midnight," 
1.  29. 

282  4  "  goes  to  church  in  a  coranto  "  :  "  Twelfth  Night,"  I,  iii,  137. 
282  1(3  "Sing  those  witty  rhymes":  Wordsworth,  "The  Fountain," 

11-  13-15- 

282  22  Macheath's  execution  :  "  The  Beggar's  Opera." 

283  8  "  as  in  a  map  the  voyager  "  :   Cowper,  "  The  Task,"  VI,  17. 
283  22  Robinson  Crusoe  lost  his  reckoning :  ''  Robinson  Crusoe  "  (edited 

by  Aitken),  p.  69 : 

After  I  had  been  there  about  ten  or  twelve  days,  it  came  into  my  thoughts 
that  I  should  lose  my  reckoning  of  time  for  want  of  books  and  pen  and  ink,  and 
should  even  forget  the  Sabbath  days  from  the  working  days  ;  but  to  prevent  this, 
I  cut  it  with  my  knife  upon  a  large  post,  in  capital  letters. 

283  34  "  with  light-winged  toys  "  :  "  Othello,"  I,  iii,  269. 

284  20  I  have  done  something  of  the  kind  :  Mr.  Waller  thinks  that  Ilaz- 
litt  here  probably  refers  to  the  description  of  his  father  in  "  My  First 
Acquaintance  with  Poets,"  pp.  175  ff- 

ON  CANT  AND  HYPOCRISY 

This  essay  consists  of  two  parts  published  in  the  London  Weekly 
Review,  December  6  and  13,  1S28.  It  was  afterwards  published  with 
some  changes  in  "  Sketches  and  Essays  "  (1839). 

285  1   "  If  to  do  "  :  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  I,  ii,  1 1  ff. 

285  3  Curl:  Edmund  Curll  (1675-1747),  prominent  as  a  bookseller 
and  editor.  He  quarreled  with  Pope,  and  at  one  time,  for  some  of  his 
publications,  had  to  stand  in  the  pillory  at  Charing  Cross. 

285  0  the  young  Earl  of  Warwick  :  the  story  is  told  that  just  before  his 
death  Addison  called  to  him  his  stepson.  Warwick,  and  said,  "  See  in 
what  peace  a  Christian  can  die."  See  Young,  "  Conjectures  on  Original 
Composition,"  Works,  p.  136. 


388  SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 

285  LS  "'  The  spirit  was  willing  "  :   Matthew  xxvi,  41. 

286  oO  Video meliora proboque :  Ovid,  "Metamorphoses,"  VII,  20.  See 
Notes  and  Queries,  ninth  series,  V,  40. 

287  29  The  scene  between  the  Abbot :  the  Abbot  Paul  and  the  Porter, 
in  Sheridan's  "Duenna"  (1775)- 

288  3  olla  podrida :  a  Spanish  phrase  meaning  literally  "  a  rotten  pot." 
A  favorite  Spanish  dish  consisting  of  various  kinds  of  meat  and  vege- 
tables ;  hence  a  hodgepodge.    It  is  often  mentioned  in  "  Don  Quixote." 

288  10  Fornarina :  see  above,  p.  378. 

288  18  "Who  shone  all":  Thomson,  "Castle  of  Indolence,"  canto  i, 
stanza  69. 

289  31  remarks  ...  of  Lord  Shaftesbury :  see  his  "  Characteristics," 
Part  I,  section  2. 

290  10  "  upon  this  bank  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  I,  vii,  6. 

291  2  Vallombrosa :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  I,  302-303 : 

Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks 
In  Vallombrosa. 

It  is  now  the  site  of  an  ancient  monastery  founded  in  the  eleventh 
century. 

291  3  Grand  Chartreux :  La  Grand  Chartreuse,  the  mother  house  of 
the  order  of  Carthusian  monks,  in  southern  France  near  Grenoble. 

291  lit  At  the  feast  of  Ramadan:  the  feast  of  el-Eed-es-Sagheer  ("the 
minor  festival")  is  a  Mohammedan  celebration  lasting  for  three  days 
and  following  the  month  of  Ramadan. 

292  15  "  mighty  coil  and  pudder  "  :  "  King  Lear,"  III,  ii,  50. 

293  8  Men  err  :  with  this  sentence  the  first  part  of  the  essay  concludes. 

294  14  French  blacklegs :  "  Blacklegs  "  is  originally  the  word  for  turf- 
swindler  ;  hence  gambler. 

295  it  Manichean :  at  the  close  of  the  third  century  the  three  chief 
religious  systems  were  Christian,  Neo-Platonistn,  and  A/aitic/icism,  the 
last-named  for  Mani  (Mavix^'oO-  ^^  was  a  dualistic  and  universal 
religion. 

295  10  Gnostic  :  the  gnostics  were  sects  which  arose  in  the  Christian 
church  in  the  finst  century.  They  held  that  knowledge  rather  than  faith 
was  important  for  salvation,  and  they  rejected  the  literal  interpretation 
of  the  Scriptures. 

295  lit  Eremites  and  friars  :   "  Paradise  Lost,"  III,  474-475. 

297  1  the  very  origin  of  the  term,  cant:  See  New  English  Dictionary: 

Presumably  represents  cant-ns,  "  singing,"  "  song,"  "  chant,"  but  the  details  of 
the  derivations  and  development  are  unknown. 


NOTES  389 

297  111  Mr.  Liberal  Snake  :  in  "  Vivian  Grey,"  the  first  novel  by  Ben- 
jamin Disraeli,  Earl  of  Beaconsfield  {1804-1881).  The  novel  had 
appeared  in  1827,  only  about  a  year  before  this  essay  w^as  written. 
This  was  one  of  the  novels  by  a  writer  of  the  so-called  datiJy  school, 
which  included  Disraeli,  Bulwer  Lytton,  Lister,  and  Theodore  Hook. 

297  20  Mr.  Theodore  Hook  (1788-1841):  dramatist  and  novelist.  He 
was  famous  as  a  conversationalist  and  improvisatore  and  edited  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine. 

A  FAREWELL  TO  ESSAY-WRITING 

This  paper  was  written  at  Winterslow,  February  20,  1828,  and  was 
published  in  the  London  Weekly  Revie^v  for  the  29th  of  March,  1828.  It 
was  printed  in  the  Winterslow  volume,  1S50. 

298  1   "  This  life  is  best  "  :  '"  Cymbeline,"  III,  iii,  29. 

298  •!  Food,  warmth,  sleep,  and  a  book  :  in  Stevenson's  "  Celestial  Sur- 
geon "  we  find  : 

If  morning  skies, 

Books  and  my  food  and  summer  rain. 
Knocked  on  my  sullen  heart  in  vain. 

298  %  ultima  thule :  Thule  was  the  name  given  by  the  ancients  to  the 
most  northern  country  with  which  they  were  acquainted.  Hence  the 
Romans  called  it  ultima  Thule,  "the  farthest  Thule." 

298  5  "  A  friend  in  your  retreat  "  :  Cowper,  "Retirement,"  11.  741-742. 

298  i;5  "  done  its  spiriting  gently  "  :  "  Tempest,"  I,  ii,  299. 

298  'Jti  "  the  spring  comes  slowly  "  :  Coleridge,  "  Christabel,"  Part  I. 

298  27  "  fields  are  dank  "  :   Milton,  "  Sonnet  to  Lawrence,"  1.  2. 

299  15  "  left  its  little  life  in  air  "  :   Pope,  "  Windsor  Forest,"  11.  133- 

"^    ' .  Oft  as  the  mounting  larks  their  notes  prepare 

They  fall  and  leave  their  little  lives  in  air. 

299  25  "  peep  through  the  blanket "  :  "  Macbeth,"  I,  v,  51  : 

Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark. 

300  10  "open  all  the  cells  "  :   Cowper,  "The  Task."  \T,  11-12. 

300  18  Theodore  and  Honoria:  a  story  which  Dryden  paraphrased  from 
Boccaccio. 

300  22  '"  Of  all  the  cities  "  :  "  Theodore  and  Honoria,"  11.  1-2. 

300  32  "Which  when  Honoria"  :   ibid.  11.  342-343. 

301  1  "And  made  th'  insult":  Dryden,  "  Sigismonda  and  Guiscardo," 
11.  668-669.    Dryden's  lines  are  : 

And  made  th"  insult,  which  in  his  gift  appears. 


390  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

301  12  I  am  much  pleased  :  this  sentence  was  omitted  from  the  Winter- 
slow  edition  and  several  other  reprints. 

301  29  "Fall'n  was  Glenartny's  stately  tree":  from  the  last  stanza 
of  Scott's  "Glenfinlas,  or  Lord  Ronald's  Coronach." 

302  12  Mr.  Gifiord :  see  the  controversy  between  Gifford  and  Hazlitt. 
The  sentence  is  quoted  in  full  by  Hazlitt  in  his  article  on  Gifford  in 
the  "  Spirit  of  the  Age  "  : 

It  was  amusing  to  see  this  person,  sitting  like  one  of  Brewer's  Dutch  boors 
over  his  gin  and  tobacco-pipes,  and  fancying  himself  a  Leibnitz. 

302  17  I  am  rather  disappointed :  this  sentence  was  omitted  from  the 
Winterslow  reprint. 

303  4  ""the  admired  of  all  observers  "  :  "  Hamlet,"  HL  i,  162. 

303  14  What  I  have  here  stated  :  the  passage  beginning  with  this  para- 
graph and  reaching  to  '"  concerning  certain  prejudices,"  p.  304,  has 
been  left  out  of  the  Winterslow  edition. 

304  12  pleasant  "  Companion  "  :   Leigh  Hunt. 

304  17  Aut  C&sar  aut  nullus :  old  Latin  proverb,  "  Either  Caesar  or 
no  one."  In  Ilazlitt's  essay,  "  Should  Actors  sit  in  Boxes,"  he  writes, 
"  The  motto  of  a  great  actor  should  be,  Ant  Ca-sar  aut  nihil.'"  See 
Suetonius,  I,  79. 

304  ;50  L :   probably  Lamb. 

305  li  Mr.  Godwin  writing  to  Mr.  Wordsworth  :  Lamb  has  told  the  story 
of  the  production  and  failure  of  this  play  written  by  Godwin.  Every  one 
interested  in  the  people  of  that  time  should  read  his  account  in  his 
essay  in  the  London  Magazine  on  '"  The  Old  Actors."  "  The  Antonio  " 
was  performed  at  Urury  Lane,  December  13,  1800. 

305  15  Aristotles  sitting  in  judgment :  there  was  much  disapproval  of 
the  dramatic  innovations  of  Euripides.    See  Aristotle's,  "  Poetics." 
305  21  "Nor  can  I  think":   Dryden,  "The  Hind  and  the  Panther," 

1.315- 

305  2()  At  the  time  I  lived  here  formerly :  see  Introduction,  p.  xxiii. 

Hazlitt  had  gone  from   London  to  Winterslow  immediately  after  his 

marriage  in  iSoS  and  lived  there  till  181 2,  when  he  returned  to  London. 

305  .'52  Chaucer's  Flower  and  Leaf :  this  poem  is  no  longer  attributed 
to  Chaucer.  In  his  lecture  on  Chaucer  and  Spenser,  Hazlitt  showed  a 
special  liking  for  this  poem  and  quoted  from  it  at  length.  See  Works,  V, 
27  seq.  With  little  success  Dryden  made  this  poem  over  into  heroic 
couplets. 

306  !i  I  used  to  walk  out  at  this  time :  this  refers  to  one  of  the  visits 
of  the  Lambs  to  Winterslow,  perhaps  to  that  one  made  in  1809  of  which 
Lamb  writes  in  his  letter  to  Coleridge,  October  30,  1809: 


NOTES  391 

I  have  but  this  moment  received  your  letter  dated  the  9th  instant,  having  just 
come  off  a  journey  from  Wiltshire,  where  I  have  been  with  Mary  on  a  visit  to 
Hazlitt.  The  journey  has  been  of  infinite  service  to  her.  We  have  had  nothing 
but  sunshiny  days  and  daily  walks  from  eight  to  twenty  miles  a  day,  have  seen 
Wilton,  Salisbury,  Stonehenge,  &c.  Her  illness  lasted  but  six  weeks  ;  it  left  her 
weak,  but  the  country  has  made  us  whole. 

For  an  account  of  thi.s  visit  see  p.  xxiv.   See  also  Mary  Lamb's  letter  to 
Mrs.  Hazlitt,  for  November  7. 

306  19  People  then  told  me:  Lamb  had  evidently  been  of  Ilazlitt's 
opinion  regarding  Claude,  for  he  had  written  to  Hazlitt  on  March  i  5, 
1806,  after  a  visit  with  Manning  to  some  of  the  galleries  :  "  Mon  Dieu  ! 
Such  Claudes!  Four  Claudes  bought  for  more  than  ;£"  10,000  (those 
who  talk  of  Wilson  being  equal  to  Claude  are  either  mainly  ignorant 
or  stupid) ;  one  of  these  was  perfectly  miraculous." 

306  23  hashed  mutton  with  Amelia's :  reference  to  the  famous  scene 
in  Fielding's  "  Amelia"  (Book  X,  chap,  v)  in  which  Amelia,  sitting  down 
in  her  husband's  absence  to  the  hashed  mutton  she  had  carefully  pre- 
pared for  him,  denied  herself  half  a  pint  of  wine  to  save  "the  little  sum 
of  sixpence  .  .  .  while  her  husband  was  paying  a  debt  of  several  guineas 
incurred  by  the  ace  of  trumps  being  in  the  hands  of  his  adversary." 

307  11  "And  curtainclose  such  scene  "  :  Collins,  "Ode  on  the  Poetical 
Character,"  1.  76. 

THE  SICK  CHAMBER 

This  paper  was  printed  in  the  Monthly  Magazine,  August,  1830,  a  few 
weeks  before  Ilazlitt's  death  in  September.  "  A  Free  Admission  "  had 
appeared  in  a  previous  issue  of  the  same  year.  Alexander  Ireland  was 
the  first  to  reprint  this  essay  in  his  volume  of  Selections  (1889).  He 
states  that  this  is  the  last  essay  which  Hazlitt  wrote.  The  spirit  of  the 
paper  reminds  us  of  that  later  enthusiast  and  Hazlitt  admirer,  Stevenson. 
See  above,  p.  359. 

308  24  "the  body  of  this  death  "  :   Romans  vii,  24. 

308  25  "  cooped  and  cabined  in  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  III,  iv,  24. 

308  28  "  peep  through  the  blanket  "  :  ibid.  I,  v,  51. 

309  8  "  a  consummation  devoutly  "  :  "  Hamlet,"  III,  i,  9. 

309  12  Hoc  erat  in  votis:  Horace,  "  Satires,"  II,  vi,  i. 

310  3  "  In  pensive  place  obscure  "  :  this  passage  is  quoted  from  Lamb, 
"John  Woodvil,"  Act  V,  scene  i. 

310  6  "vows  made  in  pain  "  :  "  Paradise  Lost,"  IV,  97. 

310  13  "The  Devil  was  sick"  :   Rabelais.  Book  IV,  chap.  xxiv. 

310  29  "like  life  and  death"  :  Lamb,  "John  Woodvil,"  Act  II,  scene  ii. 


392  SELECTIONS   FROM   HAZLITT 

311  2  "  trouble  deaf  Heaven  "  :   Shakspere,  Sonnet  XXIX. 
311  ()  "moralise  our  complaints"  :  "As  You  Like  It,"  II,  i,  44. 
311  29  "  they  have  drugged  my  posset  with  "  :  "  Macbeth,"  II,  ii,  6. 

311  31  "  puzzling  o'er  the  doubt"  :  Cowper,  "The  Needless  Alarm," 

11.  77-78  : 

That  sage  they  seem'd,  as  lawyers  o'er  a  doubt, 
Which,  puzzling  long,  at  last  they  puzzle  out. 

312  2()  "Like  Samson  his  green  wythes  "  :   Cowper,  "The  Task,"  V, 

737  : 

With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  withes. 

313  7  Metastasio  :  Pietro  Trepassi  (assumed  name,  Metastasio)  (1698- 
1782),  Italian  poet  and  dramatist,  remarkable  for  the  purity  of  his  diction. 
For  the  lines  see  his  "  Temistocle,"  III,  2. 

313  27  "  a  world,  both  pure  and  good "  :  Wordsworth,  "  Personal 
Talk,"  1.  34. 

314  7  History  of  a  Foundling :  "  The  History  of  Tom  Jones,  a  Found- 
ling" (1749),  by  Henry  Fielding. 

314  25  "  We  see  the  children  "  :  Wordsworth,  "  Intimations. of  Immor- 
tality," 11.  170-17 1. 

315  2  Journey  to  Lisbon :  "  Journal  of  a  Voyage  to  Lisbon  "  (1755),  by 
Henry  Fielding. 

315  3  Paul  Clifford:  a  novel  by  Bulwer-Lytton  (1803-1873),  published 
in  1830,  intended  to  promote  a  reform  in  criminal  law.  The  novel  was 
widely  criticized. 

315  23  "  The  true  pathos  "  :  Burns,  "  Epistle  to  Dr.  Blacklock." 


INDEX 


Abdication,  32,  326 

Abington,  Mrs.,  209,  373 

Academy  of  Compliments,  5,  318 

Achilles,  327 

Acijiiaititance  with  Poets,  My  First, 

175'  363 
Addison,  Joseph,  17,  18,  19,  22,  27, 

51,  224,  255.  285,  330,  377,  387 
Adelphi  Theatre,  251,  383 
Adveuticrer,  The,  26,  102,  325 
/^ischylus,  251 
ALsop^s  Fables,  iS 
Anastasius,  94,  341 
Angelo,  Michael,  57,  89,  225,  378 
Angerstein,  John  Julius,  114,  349 
Aram,  Eugene,  223,  377 
Aretine,  73,  217,  333 
Ariosto,  31,  72,  217,  327,  333,  375 
Aristotle,  1 1,  246 
Austerlitz,  92,  340 
Ayrton,  William,  212,  374 

Bacon,  Francis,  21,  38,  58,  63,  223, 

328 
Ballantyne  press,  97,  342 
Bannister,  John,  208,  372 
Barry,  Spranger,  221,  376 
Bartholomew-Fair,  203,  371 
Beau,  Tibbs,  27,  325 
Beauclerc,  Topham,  25,  324 
Beaumont,  58,  59,  106,  222,  332 
Bedford,  Duke  of,  105 
Begum  affairs,  32,  327 
Berkeley,  xvi,  99,  184,  223, 343,  366 
Betterton,  Thomas,  16,  322 
Bible,  the,  53,  67,  68 
Bickerstaff,  Isaac,  14, 115,321,  349 
Blacklegs,  294,  388 
Blackwood,  William,  192,  36S 
Blenheim,  114,  349 
Boccaccio,  xvi,  12,  51,  73,  76,  217, 

300- 31 5-  335' 345' 375 


Bolingbroke,  Henry  St.  John,  140, 

219.356'  376 
Bondone,  Giotto  di,  225,  378 
Borgia,  Lucretia,  225,  378 
Boswell,  James,  24,  25,  214,  218 
Brook,  Lord,  222,  377 
Browne,   Thomas,    159,    213,  228, 

379 
Bruscambille,  96,  341 
Buffamalco,  194,  368 
Bunyan,  John,  51,  221 
Burke,  Character  of  Mr.,  29,  30,  31, 

326 
Burke,  Edmund,  xv,  xvi,  21,  25,  t^t^, 

42,  53,  103,  105,  108,  115,  iSi, 

194,  221,  326,  328,  345 
Burney,  Captain  James,  xvi,  218, 

375 
Burns,  Robert,  68,  140,  224,  377 
Burton,  Robert,  149,  358 
Butler,  Joseph,  184,  223,  366 
Butt,  a,  267,  385 
Byron,   Lord,   206,   207,   242,   253, 

254,  267,  296,  303,  366,  371,  381 

Camilla,  169,  361 
Canaletti,  Antonio,  133,  354 
Cant  and  Hypocrisy,  On,  285,  387 
Caracci,  the,  113,  349 
Castiglione,  Giovanni,  73,  333 
Cavendish,  Margaret,  Duchess  of 

Newcastle,  378 
Chalmers,  Dr.,  46,  329 
Chantry,   Francis,    121,   190,   351, 

367 
Chapman,  (ieorge,  59,  66,  72,  332, 

333 
Chatterton,  Thomas,  224,  377 
Chaucer,    Geoffrey,    50,    51,    183, 

216.  217,  305,  330,  375,  378,  390 
Chester,  John,  192,  195 
Chubb's  Tracts,  98,  342 


393 


394 


SELECTIONS  FROM   HAZLITT 


Cimabue,  Giovanni,  225,  227,  378 
Clarendon   (Edward   Hyde),    106, 

346 
Claude   Lorrain,   47,   62,  86,   113, 
130,  146,  194,  225,  233,  294,  306 
Clive,  Mrs.,  221,  376 
Cobbett,  William,  158,  164 
Cockney,  138,  202,  355,  371 
Coke,  Edward,  58,  332 
Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  ix,  xvi, 
33,  102,  105,  170,  175,  176,  177, 
179,  181,  182,  183,  187,  188,  189, 
190,  191,  192,  193,  194,  195,  196, 
281,  344,  360,  363,  366 
Collins,  William,  43,  391 
Colman,  George,  354 
Condorcet,  254,  384 
Congreve,  William,  xvi,  206 
Coinioisseu!;  the,  26,  102,  325 
Cooke's  pocket-edition,  97,  342 
Cornbury,  Lord,  219,  376 
Correggio,  Antonio,  90,  92,   225, 

339'  340 
Coryate,  Thomas,  159 
Cotton,  Charles,  13 
Court  of  Honor,  323 
Covent  Garden,  199,  370 
Coventry,  sent  to,  257,  264,  384, 

385 
Cowley,  Abraham,  13,  222,  320 

Cowper,   William,    162,   194,   357, 

359.  368,  392 
Crichton,  Admirable,  223,  377 
Crown,  The  Iron,  114,  349 
Curl  (Edmund  Curll),  285,  387 

Dante,  53,  55,  56,  73,  378 
D'Arbiay,  169,  362 
Davy,  Sir  Humphry,  344 
Death,  On  the  Fear  of,  1 1 5,  349 
Defoe,    Robinson    Crusoe,    51,   52, 

283,  387 
Dekker,  Thomas,   59,  66,  71,  79, 

222,  332,  336 
Delphine,  94,  341 
De  Quincey,  Thomas,  xxi 
Disai^rceable  People,  On,  259,  385 
Disraeli,  389 
Dodd,  William,  208,  372 
Doddington,    George    Bubb,    139, 

356 


Domenichino,  192,  368 

Don  Quixote,  y.\\,  106,  136,354,361 

Donne,  Dr.,  214,  374 

Dow,  Gerard,  88,  339 

Drake,  Francis,  58,  332 

Drummond,  William,  223,  377 

Drury  Lane,  196,  199,  252,  370 

Dryden,  51,  300,  301,  306,  389 

Du  Bartas,  73,  334 

Durfey,  Tom,  16,  322 

Dyer,  George,  247,  382 

Ebro's  temper,  the,  24,  324 
Edinburgh  Reviezu,   138,  244,   253, 

355 
Edwards,  Jonathan,  223,  377 
Effendi,  232,  380 

Elizabethan  Lite?-aiitre,  On,  58,331 
Elliston,  Robert  William,  196,  368 
Emery,  John,  208,  372 
Erasmus,  159,  359 
Estcourt,  Will,  16,  332 
Euphuism,  252,  383 

Familiar  Style,  On,  155,  358 
Fareii'ell  to  Essay  Writing,  A,  298, 

389 
Farquhar,  George,  xvi,  103,  345, 

376 
Farren,  Elizabeth,  208,  372 
Faux,  Guy,  212,  374 
Fawcett,  Joseph,  230,  379 
Fear  0/ Death,  On  the,  115,  349 
Feeling,  Man  of,  28 
Feeling  of  Iinjnortality  in    Youth, 

On  the,  228,  379 
Fenton,  Lavinia,  224,  377 
Field,  Barron,  221,  376 
Fielding,  Henry,  xvi,  194,  205,  220, 

233;    Amelia,    306,    391;     Tom 

fones,  341,  366,  392 
Fletcher,  John,  58,  59,  66,  76,  77, 

106,  166,  222,  332,  335 
P'ornarina,  225,  288,  378,  388 
Fortunatus's  Wishing-Cap,  96,  341 
Froissart,  Jean,  106,  198,  346,  369 
P'ullcr,  Thomas,  106,  159,  347 
Fuscli,  19,89,  252.  323,  339 

Garrick,   David,  25,  115,  221,  222, 
325.  376,  377 


INDEX 


395 


Gay,  John,  155,  220,  224,  253,  329, 
376 ;  The  Beggar's  Opera,  ■},■},,  46, 
282,  315 

Gessner,  Solomon.  193,  308 

Ghirlandaio,  225,  227,  378 

Gifford,  William,  xxxi,  302,  390 

Gilray,  James,  204,  371 

Giorgione,  90,  340 

Giotto,  225,  227,  378 

Globe,  the,  1 15,  349 

Gnostic,  295,  388 

Godwin,  William,  xvi,  182,  194, 
196,  254,  305,  368,  369,  377,  384, 

390 
Goethe,  83,  loi,  337 
Going  a  Joitnu'v,  On,  163,  359 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  23,  25,  26,  27, 

102,  115,  131,  218,  221,  248,325, 

353 
Grand  Chartreux,  291,  388 

Gray,  Thomas,  136,  194,  224,  354 

Grecian  coffee-house,  the,  15,  321 

Green  Park,  15,  321 

Greville,  Fulke,  213,  214,  374 

Gribelin,  91,  169,  340,  361 

Grosvenor,  Lord,  114 

Guardian,  the,  20,  324 

Guicciardini,  Francesco,  106,  347 

Guide,  113,  225,  235,  251,  269 

Guy  of  Warwick,  18,  323 

Halifax,  Lord,  13,  320 

Hamlet,  i,  317 

Handel,  288 

Hartley,  David,  xvi,  99,  223,  343 

Hawkesworth,  John,  26,  325 

Haydon,    Benjamin   Robert,    190, 

367 
Hazlitt,  William,  birth,  ix  ;  father 
of,  ix,  340,  351,  364,  3S0;  moves 
to  America,  x;  his  sister  Peggy, 
X,  xi;  life  in  America,  xi;  moves 
to  Wem,  xii ;  visits  Liverpool, 
xiii;  at  Hackney,  xiv ;  walks 
■  about  country,  xv ;  his  brother 
John,  XV,  xvi,  379,  380 ;  visits 
Paris,  xviii ;  as  itinerant  painter, 
xix;  with  Lamb  at  the  farce, 
XX ;  becomes  acquainted  with 
Sarah  Stoddart,  xxi ;  marriage, 
xxii ;   first  literary  work,    xxiii ; 


at  Winterslow,  xxiii;  birth  of 
son,  XXV,  350;  visits  London, 
xxv;  lectures,  xxvii ;  life  in  Lon- 
don, xxvii ;  as  portrait  painter, 
xxviii ;  as  reporter,  xxviii ;  lec- 
tures on  English  Poets,  xxx ; 
employed  on  journals,  xxx ; 
Liber  Amoris,  xxxiii;  the  divorce, 
xxxiii ;  second  marriage,  xxxvi ; 
his  relation  to  the  John  Scott 
duel,  xxxvi  ;  at  work  on  life  of 
Napoleon,  xxxvii ;  trip  abroad, 
xxxviii ;  alone  at  Winterslow, 
xxxix ;  last  days  in  London, 
xxxix,  377;  Lamb's  letter,  xxxix; 
Talfourd's  description,  xl ;  as 
critic  of  drama,  xli;  as  critic  of 
painting,  xlvii ;  as  critic  of  books 
and  men,  xlix  ;  as  personal  es- 
sayist, liv ;  his  style.  Ivii ;  the 
man  Hazlitt,  Ix  ;  his  temper,  Ixi ; 
his  reading,  Ixiii ;  his  relation  to 
friends,  Ixiii ;  his  painting,  378 
Herald's  College,  20,  324 
Hesiod,  72,  333 
Hessey,  James  A.,  138,355 
Heywood,  Thomas,  59,  66,  222,  332 
Hobbes,    Thomas,    99,    198,    223, 

265,  343 
Hogarth,  William,   134,  205,  209, 

221,  354.372 
Holbein,  Hans,  251 
Holcroft,   Thomas,   xvi,    182,   196, 

369 
Hollinshed,  Raphael.  106,  346 
Homer,  37,  53,  54,  55,  57,  72,  107, 

183,  220,  333 
Hook,  Theodore,  297,  389 
Hooker,  Richard,  58 
Hot-cockles,  199,  369 
Hume,  xvi,  99,  183,  184,  223,  365 
Hunt,  Leigh,  xi,  301,  302,  303, 304, 

377.  382,  390 
Hutchinson,  Lucy,  226,  378 

Impasting.  90,  340 

Ireland,  William  Henry,  247,  382 

Irving,  Edward,  loi,  252,343,383 

Jacob's  Dream,  45,  329 
Jeffrey,  Francis,  ix 


396 


SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 


Jenkins,  Mr.,  176 

Johnson,  Samuel,  20,  21,  22,  23,  24, 

26,  64,  102,  104,  115,  125,  156, 

173,  184,  194,  202,  218,  221,  324, 

351,  362,  366 
Jonson,  Ben,  58,  59,  66,  72,  208, 

214,223,  332,  ^1,1,,  355,  376,  377 
Journey,  On  Going  a,  163,  359 
Julius,  Pope,  89 
Junius,  xvi,  104,  194,  255,  346 

Kant,  246,  381 

Kean,  Edmund,  xlvi,  8,  318 

Keats,  John,  xxxi,  loi,  139,  353, 

355 
Kemble,  John  Philip,  7,  8,  318 

King,  Thomas,  208,  372 

Kneller,    Godfrey,    94,    213,    341, 

374 

La  Fontaine,  226 

Lamb,  Charles,  ix,  xix,  xxii,  xxxix, 
78,  159,  167,  196,  304,  315,  336, 
343,  358,  361,  373,  374,  376,  379, 
382,  390,  391 ;  Rosamond  Gray, 
28,  326 

Lamb,  Mary,  xxiv,  xliv,  378 

Langton,  Bennet,  25,  324 

La  Roche,  27,  326 

Lauder,  William,  24,  324 

Lauderdale,  Earl  of,  105,  346 

Lawrence,  Thomas,  252 

Le  Fevre,  27,  326 

Leibnitz,  Gottfried,  223 

Lely,  Peter,  251 

Leonardo  da  Vinci,  90,  225,  339, 

379 
Lewis,  Monk,  190,  208,  367 

Lillo,  George,  42,  328 

Lilly,  Mr.,  16,  322 

Listen,  John,  207,  209 

Living  to  One\<:-Sel/,  On,  127,  352 

Locke,   John,   99,   212,   213,   224, 

343 
Longinus,  252,  383 

Lord  Mayor,  the,  36,  43,  327 

Lonnger,  the,  27,  326 

Lucan,  248,  383 

Machiavelli,  Niccolo,  73,  333 
Mackenzie,  Henry,  103,  326 


Mackintosh,  James,  181,  182,  365 
Alan  of  Feeling,  28,  326 
Mail  of  the  World,  28,  326 
Mandeville,  Bernard  de,  265,  320 
Manichean,  295,  388 
Mansfield,  Lord,  219,  376 
Marlborough,  Duke  of,  16,  322 
Marlowe,  Christopher,  59,  66,  76, 

99,  156,  222,  322,  335,  358,  377 
Mars,  Mademoiselle,  209,  373 
Marston,  John,  59,  66,  332 
Marville,  Vignuel  de,  no,  348 
Merry  England,  197,  369 
Metastasio,  313,  392 
Middleton,  Thomas,  59,  66,  332 
Millar,  Andrew,  94,  341 
Milton,  John,  xvi,   22,  24,  48,  65, 

68,  103,  104,  108,  135,  140,  194, 

312 
Minerva  press,  97,  342 
Mirror,  the,  27,  326 
Mitre,  the,  25 
Moliere,   Jean   Baptiste,   36,   206, 

327 
Montagu,     Lady    Mary    Wortley, 

220,  232,  233,  376,  380 
Montaigne,  Michel,  10,  12,  13,  21, 

226,  319 
Moore,  Edward,  42,  328 
Moore,  Thomas,  233,  301,  380 
Morgan,  Lady,  94,  341 
Munden,  Joseph,  20S,  372 
Murillo,  178,  364 
Murray,  Mr.,  186 

Napoleon,  103,  131,  345,  349,  353. 

382 
Newton,  Isaac,  20,  212,  213,  232, 

324 
Nicholson,  William,  130,  353 
Ninon  de  I/Enclos,  226,  378 
North,  Thomas,  72,  333 
Northcote,  James,  89,  339 

Oldfield,  Mrs.,  16,  322 

Olla  podrida,  288,  388 

Opie,  John,  89,  339 

Ossian,  53,  57,  247,  331 

Otway,  Thomas,  66,  224,  282,  377 ; 

Venice  Preserved,  332 
Ovid,  12,  333 


INDEX 


397 


Paley,  William,  185,  366 

Paine,  Tom,  184,  366 

Parsons,  William,  208,  372 

Pascal,  253,  384 

Past   and    Future.,    On    the,    142, 

356 
Paul  and  Vtrgima,  xvii,  169,  187, 

361,  367 
Peel's  coffee-house,  247,  382 
People,  On  Disagreeable,  259,  385 
Periodical  Essayists,  On  the,  9,  319 
Persian  Letters,  26,  325 
Persons  one  would   Wish   to  have 

Seen,  Of,  2\2,  373 
Petrarch,  73,  248,  375,  382 
Phillips,  E.,  220,  376 
Philoctetes,  51,  330 
Pieces  of  eight,  158,  358 
Plato,  37,  246,  328 
Pleastire  of  Painting,   On  the,  82, 

336 
Poetry  in  General,  On,  35,  327 
Poet's-Corner,  the,  132 
Poets,  My  P'irst  Acquaititance  with, 

175'  363 
Poole,  Tom,  191,  367 
Pope,  Alexander,   11,   16,  43,   50, 

102,  153,  194,  218,  232,  248,  354, 

375 
Pope,  Miss,  208 
Poussin,  Gasper,  192,  368 
Poussin,  A'icolas,  On  a  Landscape 

of,  107,  346 
Pritchard,  Mrs.,  221,  376 

Quarterly  Peview>,  138,  253,  355 
Queen'' s  Matrimonial- Ladder,  257, 

Quin,  James,  221,  376 

Rabelais,  206,  226,  391 
Radcliffe,  Mrs.  Anne,  97,  342 
Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  58 
Raphael,  47,  92,  1 1 1,  1 13,  194,  225, 
233.  235,  251,  288,  294 ;  the  Car- 
toons, 19,  323 
Reading  N'cco  Books,  On,  242,  381 
Reading  Old  Books,  On,  94,  340 
Rembrandt,  46,  85,  86,  87,  92,  113, 

225,  236,  338 
Returne  from  Parnassus,  78,  336 


Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  57,  87,  91, 
107,  115,  153,221,  225,  331,  338, 

347 
Reynolds,  Mrs.,  218,  376 
Richardson,  Jonathan,  89,  339 
Richardson,  Samuel,  xvi,  52,  103, 

127,  128,  194,  220,  232,  330,  353 
Rickman,  John,  xvi 
Rifaccimentos,  95,  341 
Robinson,  Crabb,  xvi,  xvii,  xxvii, 

XXX 

Robinson,  Long,  200,  370 

Rochefoucauld,  xvi,  226 

Ronsard,  Pierre  de,  73,  334 

Rosa,  Salvator,  33,  326 

Rossini,  252,  3S3 

Roubigne,  28,  326 

Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques,  xvi,  99, 
100,  121,  133,  144,  145,  169,  177, 
226,  278,  343>  35O'  353'  356'  360, 
362,  386 

Rowe,  Mr.,  175,  176,  363 

Rowley,  William,  59,  332 

Royal  Exchange,  19,  323 

Rubens,  85,  90,  112,  113,225,  235 

Sadler's  Wells,  251,  383 
St.  Neot's,  169,  361 
Saturnalian  licence,  78,  336 
Sarto,  Andrea  del,  90,  339 
Schiller,  90,  loi,  120,  237,  340, 344, 

35O'  2,^2, 
Scott,  ix,  94,   192,  242,  245,  268, 

340,  356,  368,  381 

Seven  Champions,  18,  323 

Shaftesbury,  Lord,  13,  91,  289, 
320,  340,  388 

Shakespeare,  42,  50,  53,  58,  59, 
61,  63,  64,  65,  66,  72,  74,  75,  77, 
102,  138,  140,  194,  206,  213,  222, 
223,  227,  232,  247,  250,  274,  277, 

294. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  267 
Shenstone,  William,  136,  253,  354, 

384 
Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley,  287, 

388 
Sliippen,  William,  11,  319 
Sick  Chambn;  The,  30S.  391 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  58,  77,  185,  213, 

335'  366 


398 


SELECTIONS  FROM  HAZLITT 


Simmons,  208 

Skeffington,  Honourable  Mr.,  92, 

340 
Smith,  Adam,  179 
Smollett,  Tobias,  xvi,  341,  372 
Snake,  Mr.  Liberal,  297,  389 
Sophocles,  351 
South,  Robert,  184,  365 
Southey,  ix,  xxii,  186,  190,  196 
Spectator,  the,    14,    16,   17,   19,   20, 

102,  202,  267,  286,  320,  344,  385 
Spence,  Joseph,  153,  357 
Spenser,  Edmund,  48,  58,  74,  217, 

314 
Stafford,  Marquis  of,  114 
Steele,  Richard,  14,  17,  18,  19,  224 
Steen,  Jan,  88,  339 
Sterne,    Laurence,    27,    115,    142, 

165,  230,  282,  350,  356 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  Iv,  Ivii, 

Ix,  357'  359-  391 
Stewart,  Dugald,  224,  t,-j-j 
Stowe,  John,  106,  346 
Style,  On  Familiar,  155,  358 
Suckling,  John,  77,  335 
Suett,  Richard,  208,  372 
SiDi-Dial,  On  a,  274,  386 
Surrey,  Earl  of,  335 
Swift,  Jonathan,  207,  224,  232,  255 

Tasso,  Torquato,  72,  333 

Tatler,  the,  xvi,  14,  16,  19,  20,  102, 

320 
Taylor,  Jeremy,  194 
Taylor,    Thomas,    138,    246,    247, 

355.  3S1 
Temple  Bar,  14,  321 

Temple  Church,  14,  116,  350 

Temple,  Sir  William,  13,  94,  320, 

341 
Thackeray,  William,  354 
Thomson,  James,    194,   224,   261, 

2S8,  377,  385 
Thurloe,  John,  94,  341 


Thucydides,  106,  347 
Tilbury,  A.,  163,  360 
Titian,  47,  62,  90,   113,  217,  225, 

340 
Tooke,  Home,  223 
Trumpet,  the,  15,  321 
Tucker,  Abraham,  xxiii,  91,   122, 

340,  351 
Turenne,  Marshall,  16,  322 

Ugolino,  Count,  57,  331 

Vanbrugh,  John,  16,  322 
Vandyke,  225,  251 
Velasquez,  178,  364 
Virgil,  12,  141,  333 
Voltaire,  252,  291,  384 

Walton,  Izaac,  202,  265,  385 
Webster,  John,   59,  66,   132,  222, 

J-'  j5j 
Wedgwood,  Josiah,  365 

Wedgwood,  Tom,   181,   182,   183, 

365 
^^  est,  Benjamin,  no,  348 
Westall,  William,  169,  361 
Westminster  Abbey,  19,  323,  349 
Weston,  Thomas,  221,  376 
llliole  Duty  of  Man,  the,  5,  318 
Wilkes,  John,  25,  325 
Wilkie,  David,  134,  354 
Will's  coffee-house,  15,  322 
Wilson,  Richard,  133,  337,  354 
Winterslow,  127,  352,  357,  390 
Wolstonecraft,    Mary,     181,     182, 

365 
Wordsworth,  William,  ix,  xvi,  65, 

105,  181,  187,  188,  189,  190,  193, 

194,  255,  282,  346,  347,  353,  367, 

390 ;   the  Lyrical  Ballads,  xvii, 

102,  188 

World,  the,  26,  102,  325 

Young,  Edward,  119,  350 


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